Page 82 of Last Man Standing

“All of those people are adults, and we’re gonna be just fine.” Unraveling his arms from around my leg, I lower into a crouch and meet him on his level. “I’m not mad at you, and neither is Scarlett. Now you just have to give Mom a big squeezy hug, and I reckon she won’t be mad at you either. Then everything will be better again.” I grab onto his shoulders and yank him in until our chests clash. “If you wanna play later, come find me. Maybe we could swing by the rec room and play Nintendo or something.”

“Really?” He pulls back and shows off wet, smiling eyes. “You promise?”

“I promise. And if I’m extra lucky, I might even talk Scarlett into playing too. That way, you can hang out with her, but it’s allowed, cause I’ll be there to watch.” I ruffle his hair and wait for his nod of approval. Then I straighten my legs and turn away.

I have nothing to say that won’t make this whole mess worse, so I push through the doorway, passing my disappointed dad, then Mav right after him, grief settling deep in my gut for the goofy smile he no longer wears.

It’s lost now; probably around the time I announced my disloyalty to the family we were raised to fight for.

Shaking my head, I move along hall and head back to my room, only to open the door and lock eyes with Scarlett as she flops her suitcase open on my bed.

Tears stream over her cheeks. “I’m done.” She swipes her face and spins to collect her shit from all over my room. “I’m leaving.”

27

SCARLETT

THE POT HAS OFFICIALLY BOILED OVER

Sebastion speaks of war like he lives on the front line. He trains soldiers on the grass outside my window for hours every single day, as if an enemy army was already headed this way. He speaks of choices and responsibilities. Of freedoms and sacrifices.

He swears he wants to protect me, but he brings me to this place I’m not welcome and claims it’s for my own good.

I’m at war too, against a nameless, faceless letter-dropper whose primary goal is to send me to the brink of insanity.

I don’t have time to fight a second, noisier, closer war with a woman I don’t even know.

“You’re not leaving, Princess.” Sebastion saunters across the room, so fucking casual and arrogant in his stance. So callous in the twitch of his lips. This is all a joke to him. My terror, the fear I feel day after day cruelly crawling beneath my skin, is nothing more than funny fodder for him to smirk at. “Stop packing your things and calm the fuck down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.” I toss my cross-body bag into the suitcase, then pens as I scoop them up from the floor and drop them in. “I’m not not calm, Sebastion. I’m just done.”

I slam a pile of jeans into the case, then a hairbrush.

He picks my brush back up and sets it on the bed. “You’re not leaving.”

“I am. And unless you slit my throat and make me stay, you don’t get a say in the matter.” I stalk into the bathroom and sweep my dirty laundry into a pile. I wish for a garbage bag or something to wrap them in, to keep them separate from my clean clothes, but that’s just not a luxury I get today, so I turn and stride back into the room. “Go,” I flick my wrist toward the hallway. “Spend time with your mommy. Stroke her hair and tell her how wonderful she is, since she’s clearly accustomed to a certain level of blind adoration. I’ll be done in five minutes, then you can have your room back.” I dump my dirty clothes into the suitcase. “It’ll be like I was never here.”

“You don’t get to run away, Scarlett.” He fists my stack of jeans and sets them on the bed. “You don’t get to leave.”

“Stop me.” I stalk to the windowsill and snatch up my notebooks. Useless now, because I’ve run out of pages anyway. “Get the hell out of my way.” I toss the books into my suitcase and slap his hands away before he can take them. “And stop touching my stuff.” I bend over the bed and grab my jeans again, dumping them on top of the messy pile. “Remember how you told me to close my eyes as we were approaching this place?”

With an ominously ticking jaw, he straightens his back and folds his arms.

“Well, now you get to close your eyes. Shut them, count to thirty, then I’ll be gone.”

“No,” he grits out dangerously.

“Yes.” I finger the hem of my hoodie—his hoodie—and peel it over my head. The string catches in my hair and the stiff fabric tugs on my earring. Ouch. “I don’t want to be here anymore.” I slam the hoodie against his chest and stop him from stealing the notebooks from my suitcase. “Stop unpacking my stuff!”

“You’re mine to protect now!” His booming declaration hits like a violent jab to the jaw, then he sweeps his hands under my suitcase and flips the whole damn thing off the bed. “I’ll be damned if I fail you, Scarlett. So stop asking me to.”

“I’m not asking!” Fury and sorrow meet in my veins and propel me forward until I’m bashing the sides of my fists on his chest to the same thunderous beat of my heart. “I don’t want to be here, Sebastion! I don’t want to be in the same state as your mother. I don’t want to know the location of her home, or sleep beside you every friggin’ night, and I especially don’t want sitting in your window while you chat with your girlfriend to be the highlight of my fucking day!” I feel the buzz of her texts in my pocket. Serena’s. Or Cleo’s. Or Terri’s. Or whoever the hell else wishes he would pay attention to them. “I don’t want this! You brought me here against my will, you convinced me to stay, but now I’m done.”

“I said no!” He traps my wrists in his hands and yanks me forward until our chests clash. “Not every place you go will be comfortable, Princess, and not every human on the planet has to like you. When you realize popularity doesn’t matter a damn when you’re at war, you’ll see this is the safest place for you to be.”

“Stop calling me Princess!” I scream as frustration and pain and trauma and sadness spike in my blood and sever that last tether holding me in place. “Stop touching me. Stop acting like we are at war. We are not. You’re playing GI Joe with a woman who peaked in her twenties, and I’m trying not to lose my fucking mind while the men in my life push me around. Lincoln demands I step left. I step left. You order me to step right. I step right. You and Lincoln argue in private like you think I don’t hear every friggin’ conversation, and both of you are determined to be right, no matter the cost of victory.” I snap my wrists free of his bruising grip and snatch my cross-body bag from the pile on the floor. “Keep my shit. They’re just clothes.” I drag the bag over my head and settle the strap between my breasts. “Don’t worry so much though, okay?” I stalk past him and head for the door. “I won’t tell anyone where your precious mother lives. If it makes you feel better, I’ll tie my shirt over my eyes and walk around blind until my feet turn purple. That ought to satisfy Arabella’s obsession with hiding in the mountainside.”

I grab the door handle and twist it until the lock disengages, but then I’m crushed to the door with a body-slamming blow. My lungs empty and, for just a second, old fears rear up and freeze me in my tracks.