Page 61 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Her words, sharp and ugly, dug into me. It was always like this. Always her voice, her expectations, her disappointment weighin' down on me, making my shoulders ache. I could feel Maverick beside me, coiled and tight, but I was the one she looked at. I was the one who was supposed to fix things.

That was it. That was the trigger. It was like a switch flipped inside my head. A hot, white rage, pure and primal, flooded my veins. It wasn't even my own. It felt like it was comin' from her, from Momma, like she'd thrown it at me and it had taken root. I was on my feet before I knew I was moving, my chair scraping loud against the floor.

I rushed over to Rory, my body moving on its own. I grabbed her bowl, warm in my hand, and I shoved it toward her face. "Eat," I snarled, my voice a low, guttural growl I didn't recognize. I used the spoon, shovelin' the stew, the chunks of meat and cabbage, right at her mouth. Some of it smeared across her cheek, a dark, greasy smear.

A part of me, a small, distant part, was screaming in horror. What are you doin'? Stop! But I couldn't. It was like I was a passenger in my own body, watching this unhinged thing wearin' my face. I felt a burn of shame, hot and acidic, in my throat. I just wanted her to stop yellin' at me. I wanted Rory to stop bein' so damn stubborn all the time, to just give in, to make it all stop. I was shoving the food at her, and I couldn't stop.

Then, as fast as it started, it was over. The rage receded, leavin' me cold and empty. I stood there, the spoon in my hand, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked at Rory, at the food on her face, at the defiance in her eyes, and I felt like I was gonna be sick. I sat down hard, my head in my hands, the shame washing over me in waves.

I sat there, my food tasting like ash in my mouth. Every muscle in my body was coiled tight, a knot of pure rage. I kept my eyes down, starin' into my plate, tryin' to keep the glare off my face. I didn't dare look at Momma. I didn't dare look at Maverick. I knew what I'd see. I'd see the satisfaction on Momma's face, the pleasure she took in forcin' my hand, in making me break. And I'd see the... whatever it was on Maverick's face. Pity? Understanding? I didn't want it. I didn't want any of it.

I hated that Momma could do that to me, that she could reach inside me and pull out the worst parts of me and make me do her dirty work. And I hated that she was pleased by it. I could feel her eyes on me, a heavy, satisfied weight, and it made my skin crawl.

Then I felt it. A soft tap on my foot under the table. I didn't have to look to know it was Maverick. I risked a quick glance at him from under my lashes. He wasn't lookin' at me, not directly, but he gave me this little look, a slight tilt of his head, a small, almost invisible nod. It'll be okay, his eyes said. It's done now.

I hated that, too. The lie of it. Nothing was gonna be okay. But I slowly nodded my head back, a small, stiff movement. I picked up my spoon and finished my food, my movements mechanical, my taste long gone. Across the table, Rory sat there, her face a mask of fury. She was pissed, and she was glarin' at everyone, at me, at Maverick, at Momma. She looked like a cornered animal, ready to fight. And I couldn't blame her. I'd be glarin', too.

We finished dinner in a silence that was thick enough to choke on. Momma started to clean up the table, her movements efficient and cold. Every time she looked at Rory, it was with a look of disgust.

That's when Maverick moved. He stood up, his chair scrapin' loud against the floor. He started gathering up the plates, his movements a little too smooth, a little too practiced. "Well now," he said, his voice a low, theatrical drawl. "Since our bride has been defiled, and not in a fun way..."

Momma's head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock. "MAVERICK!"

He just giggled, an unhinged sound that echoed in the quiet room. He leaned against the table, a wild grin on his face. "What? I'm just sayin' we need to get our girl home and cleaned up. Can't have her lookin' like a stray dog we dragged in from the rain, now can we?"

He started stackin' the plates, his hands moving with a strange, jerky grace. Then he walked over to Rory, his eyes never leaving her face. He reached down and unfastened the cuff from the chair, his fingers quick and sure. The cuff fell away from her wrist with a soft clink.

He looked right at Momma, his eyes flashin' with a challenge, a cold, hard glare that made my stomach clench. Then, just as quick, it was gone, replaced by one of his small, charmless smiles. He walked over to Momma, leaned in, and gave her a quick, sharp peck on the cheek that made her flinch. It was a test. He was playin' a game, all right, but it wasn't about Rory. Not really. He was playing the situation, tryin' to see if Momma would catch the subtle hints, the things he wasn't saying out loud. He was seeing if she understood that what she made me do... wasn't okay.

I watched it all unfold, my hands clenched into fists under the table. This was a show. Maverick's show. And I was just sitting here, watching it happen, feelin' a deep, growin' unease that settled in my gut like a stone.

We walked her back to the trailer, the night air cool against my skin. Rory walked in front of us, a slow pace, her shoulders straight, her head held high. She was pissed, and she had every right to be. Maverick and I, we stepped far back behind her, givin' her a wide berth, a silent acknowledgment of the line we'd all crossed.

Maverick lit up a smoke, the flint of his lighter a brief, bright spark in the darkness. He was actin' like nothing had happened, like he hadn't just sat there and watched Momma push me into a rage, like he hadn't just challenged her right there at the dinner table. It was a cool, calculated distance that felt wrong. I saw the look in his eyes back there, though. I saw the flash of anger, the cold, hard challenge he'd thrown at Momma. I know Maverick better than anyone in this world. We may not be blood, but we might as well be. We've been through hell and back together, and no one can ever come between us. If anything failed, we always had one another. He knows me better than anyone, too. He knows what that rage feels like, what it costs me. He knows what it cost me tonight.

I watched him take a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curlin' around his face in the moonlight. I wanted to say something, to ask him what he was up to. But I didn't. I just walked, my hands in my pockets, my heart a heavy, uncomfortable weight in my chest. We were a team, him and me. We always had been. But tonight, for the first time, I wasn't so sure.

We got back to our main trailer. Rory didn't even hesitate. She just stormed past us, her boots thumpin' on the floor, and slammed right into the bathroom. The door shook on its hinges, the sound of it echoin' in the small space. I just stood there, watching the shut door, my shoulders slumping.

Maverick, he just chuckled, a low, rumblin' sound that got on my last nerve. "Well, ain't she somethin’?" he said, his voice drippin' with that damn amusement of his. "Gotta love a woman with spirit."

That was it. That was the thing that broke me. I turned on him, my voice low and sharp. "This ain't a joke, Maverick. You saw what happened in there. You saw what Momma made me do."

His smile fell away, his eyes turnin' hard. "Don't you think I know that? You think I liked watchin' you lose it like that? Watchin' you... forced to do that to her?"

"Then why are you laughin'?" I shot back, my voice risin' despite myself. "Why are you actin' like this is all some damn joke?"

"Because what else am I supposed to do?" he yelled, his voice crackin' with frustration. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted Momma to get her claws in her? I don't like anyone else handlin' her like that. I get it's Momma, but we have to protect her. Even from her, too."

I stared at him, my breath caught in my throat. He was right.

"I don't want anyone else, Blythe," he said, his voice lower now, but just as intense. "Rory is it for us."

I looked from his face to the closed bathroom door, and I knew he was tellin' the truth. I felt it deep, the same way I felt the rage, the same way I felt the shame. He was my brother, and she was ours. There was no other way. "Yeah," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "She's it for us."

The bathroom door creaked open, and Rory came out. She'd changed back into them striped shorts and the little tank top. Maverick was cleanin' his knife at the small table, and I was tightenin' a loose screw on the cabinet hinge. We both stopped, our hands frozen mid-motion, the sounds of our work dying in the quiet room. We just watched her. She didn't look at us, just walked over to the bed and climbed in, yankin' the covers up over her head like she could disappear into them.

Maverick and I looked at each other, a silent conversation passin' between us. It was late, and we had to. I let out a slow breath and nodded. I'd do it. I'd be the one she hated. I stood up and walked over to the bed, the chains in my hand feeling heavy and cold.