It’s not until his fist crashes into the side of Carrson’s face that I understand all those words were a distraction. A way for Jackson to get in position without Carrson noticing. Carrson’s head rocks backward from the blow, his lip splitting in a thin gash. Blood trickles from Carrson’s mouth and down his neck.
I expect Carrson to be furious, but instead he grins. “So that’s how you want it?” Calmly he drops Jackson’s shirt and steps back, his hands balling as he drops into a position I’ve seen many times before, at the punching bag, with his knees bent and fists up. Ready.
“It’s been what?” he adds lightly. “A year since you last challenged me?” He says it in an offhand way, like they’re discussing ordinary things. The weather. What sports team will win the championship. “Let’s see if you’ve learned anything.”
Jackson mirrors him, raising his fists, bouncing lightly on his toes.
“Oh, I’ve picked up a thing or two.” His gaze slides to me. “Let’s raise the stakes,” he adds. “Winner gets Ashford House.”
A beat.
“Andthe girl.”
“She’s not up for discussion,” Carrson growls.
He drives forward, shoulder ramming into Jackson’s side, sending him crashing back into the wall beside me. The impact shudders through the hallway.
I turn as the portrait of Carrson’s ancestor tears loose from the wall and crashes to the floor. The gilt frame splinters on impact, glass breaking across his face in a spiderweb of fractures, one cutting straight through his eyes. Shards fly into the air. I flinch, turning away, my hands flying up to shield my face.
Jackson twists, slipping under Carrson’s arm and tearing free in the same motion. His fist snaps out, catching Carrson hard in the side. Carrson lets out a short grunt, already turning, tracking as Jackson retreats, light on his feet in a way that shouldn’t match his size.
They circle.
I press back against the wall, my palms flat, like I can disappear if I try hard enough.
They’re matched in height, but Carrson moves differently, leaner, more accurate, every shift premeditated. Jackson swings wide, but Carrson ducks under it, the motion clean and efficient, and comes up right inside his space. Before Jackson can reset, Carrson’s fist drives forward and connects square with his face.
I flinch at the crack of bone.
Jackson howls, staggering back as blood gushes from his nose. It spills down his chin to stain his shirt. A dark, fleeting satisfaction cuts through me as I remember the boy downstairs, the way he folded under Jackson’s fists. How his nose bled too.
“You’re such a freak, Carrson,” Jackson spits, backing away as Carrson advances, steady, unhurried. “You only rule here because you’re good with your fists. But you’re no leader.”
“Shut up,” Carrson hisses, his voice low, poisonous.
Jackson drags his gaze over Carrson, then shakes his head, his mouth twisting with disgust. “Pathetic. The first Ashford to fail. Tell me, how does that feel? We all know when we leave here,I’llbe the one in charge. Thanks to you, my dad already leads The Order.”
Carrson’s hands are still curled into fists, knuckles whitening, but he doesn’t lunge. He waits.
Jackson keeps moving, circling, baiting, trying to pull a reaction out of him.
Carrson doesn’t give it.
“All those ancestors of yours,” Jackson sneers. “Hundreds of years. They must be rolling over in their graves.”
“I’m not warning you again.” Carrson moves. One step. That’s all it takes. His hands close on Jackson’s shoulders, his grip locking in place, and before Jackson can react Carrson pivots and uses his momentum against him.
In a split second, Jackson’s feet leave the ground.
Then he’s gone.
Hurled over the banister and out of sight, his startled yelp cutting off as he disappears.
Then…the crash below.
Without sparing me a glance, Carrson grips the railing and vaults over it, dropping out of sight.
I rush forward, heart hammering, expecting to find them both sprawled on the floor, broken, but they’re already on their feet, moving toward each other again fast, on a collision course. As I watch from above, fists hit and blood splatters across the carpet.
