Not on scholarship, like me.
After a moment, I cross the distance that separates us one quiet step at a time until I’m almost beside him. Close enough to feel the force of his hits through the ground, to hear the steady rhythm of his breath. Carrson doesn’t notice. He’s too focused on the bag, on whatever’s driving his fists like he’s trying to beat something out of himself.
When I’m about a foot away, my eyes flick to the knives sunk into the tree trunk within easy reach. If I startle him, I have a feeling he won’t hesitate. Better to let him know I’m here. I deliberately step on a branch the size of my thumb. It snaps,loud, the sound cracking through the stillness like a gunshot and echoing into the trees, sending birds scattering into the air.
Carrson doesn’t break stride.
One second the knives are buried in the tree, the next one is in his grip and he’s turning, fast but controlled. This isn’t panic. It’s instinct. Like this is what he does. Who he is.
His body moves seamlessly, weight dropping, stance widening, balanced and ready.
The blade is at my throat.
Cold steel hovers over my skin. I feel it without it quite touching.
My breath falters, trapped in my chest. I stand frozen, not because I’m scared. Because I understand, all at once, how real this is.
My hands lift slowly, palms out. “Ah…hey.”
I don’t move. The trees don’t move either. The entire clearing goes quiet. Waiting.
Then I step forward and close the distance.
The blade meets my skin.
Not enough to cut. A cool, sharp press at the base of my throat that sends an electric awareness through me, gathering low in my stomach. My pulse hammers against the edge of the knife, each beat pressing me closer to it, my own body testing the boundary.
He doesn’t pull back, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. I’ve surprised him.
Up close, he’s…worse.
Not just handsome. Controlled.
Every line of him held in place as if it’s been trained that way. His shoulders coiled with restrained force. His chest moves slow and steady.
He smells like sweat, earth, metal.
Danger.
Air slips out of me in an exhale, and the blade follows, like it’s part of him.
I force my shoulders to loosen, shrinking enough to read as small, harmless. My hands stay where he can see them, open and empty.
See? Not worth stabbing.
My breathing stays steady, but my pulse doesn’t. It punches hard against my ribs as I look at him, at the tension locked into his shoulders, at the slight flex of his fingers around the knife.
He hasn’t lowered it. Not even a little.
If anything, he’s holding himself in place, balanced on the edge of a decision he hasn’t made yet. His gaze drags over me, assessing, as if he’s noting every detail. Deciding whether I’m a threat or just a nuisance. His grip shifts, and the blade moves closer, indenting my skin.
A drop of blood beads where the blade kisses my skin…then slides down my throat.
His eyes lock onto it as darkness swirls in his expression, focused on that single drop of crimson as it slips under my collar.
I think he likesit.
My blood.
