Forged in Betrayal (Forged #2)

Prologue

“Hold still.” Tex’s voice was low and rough, but there was a softness in it, too. I wrinkled my nose but didn’t move as he pulled the hoodie’s sleeve up higher to dab ointment along the scrape on my forearm.

“You know,” I said dryly, “this feels more like punishment than first aid.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t go throwing yourself at a brick wall…”

“I didn’t throw myself,” I protested. “I got shoved.”

He glanced up at me, “You could’ve taken him. ”

“I was caught off guard. Someone was distracting me.” I smiled.

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I learned from the best.”

We were in the corner of the gym, the overhead lights flickering now and then, the speakers playing something gritty and fast in the background. The others had already left for the night.

He finished with the bandage and gave me a look, then started gathering the ointment, tape, and little torn wrappers into the metal first-aid tin. “Okay, smartass. Take this and put it back in the supply closet before Jace comes in tomorrow and accuses me of stealing medical grade tape again.”

I reached for the tin automatically. Then I looked toward the narrow door beside the gym lockers.

It was stupid. It was only a closet. A peeling gray door, half a broken handle, one of the fluorescent lights buzzing above it like it was about to give out.

I’d opened it a hundred times before. There were towels in there, as well as mats that smelled like rubber and old sweat. Nothing else.

“You good?” he asked.

I nodded too fast. “Yeah.”

He didn’t push, he just looked at me in that steady way of his, like he’d wait all night if that was what it took. I stared at the closet door until the edges of it blurred. The tin felt too heavy in my hands.

I swallowed. My throat felt too tight. “Can I tell you something?”

His expression shifted, serious now. “You don’t have to ask me that.”

“I do,” I said. “Because once I say it, you’ll know. Then I can’t take it back, and I don’t…I don’t want you to look at me differently.”

Tex leaned forward, arms draped over his knees, eyes locked on mine. “You could tell me you murdered a nun, and I’d still make sure you ate dinner. ”

I snorted, then hesitated. My fingers twisted in the hem of my hoodie. I swallowed hard.

“Daniel used to lock me in this crawlspace in the garage,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “No windows. Just concrete and darkness. I realize now he just wanted me out of the way while he and mom did whatever it was they used to do.”

Tex’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t pity me. He listened. He didn’t flinch or try to fix it.

“I used to count the seconds. I’d dig my fingernails into the floor so I wouldn’t scream. I’d whisper the names of cartoon characters so I wouldn’t forget what voices sounded like.” I paused. “Sometimes, I dream about being in the dark. The ringing in my ears.”

He reached out and took the tin, setting it gently on the floor, then he curled his fingers around mine, and held on.

“I hated him,” I said. “But I clung to the good memories. The way Mama would sing to me, how we’d dance in the kitchen. I thought at some point, she’d see him hurting me, and she’d leave. Save me. Save herself.”

Tex squeezed my hand. “You don’t have to explain that. Not to me. You survived something most people couldn’t even imagine, and you still have hope. That doesn’t make you weak, Isobel. That makes you strong.”

I studied his face, looking for any signs of a lie. But I knew there wouldn’t be. He’s Tex. Ruggedly handsome. His beautiful eyes pierced me with the honesty of his words. I traced over his jaw, the slope of his nose, the stubble starting to poke out along his cheeks.

“I don’t know why I told you that.”

He didn’t smile, he just said, “I’m glad you did. Sometimes it’s easier to know that someone else gets it.”

Tex’s hand was still wrapped around mine, his thumb grazing slowly over my hand.

“They should really get rid of crawlspaces.” He gave me a weak smile. I nodded in agreement.

“Do you ever think about what you’d do if you had him in front of you again?” he asked, voice rough.

My eyes flicked to his, searching. “Daniel?”

Tex nodded. I looked down at our hands. I could still feel the old ache from Daniel’s boot as he kicked and stomped my ribs. The hollow stare my mom had when she let it happen.

“I used to dream about it,” I admitted. “Killing him. Over and over. I’d imagine the weight of the knife in my hand, the look on his face. Sometimes I’d wake up shaking from it. Sometimes I’d wake up smiling.”

Tex didn’t flinch.

“But now…” I breathed out slowly. “I don’t know if I want to kill him or make him suffer.”

That pulled a small sound from him—almost like a laugh, but darker. “That’s more terrifying than anything I could’ve imagined. You really are something else, Ashthorne.”

I met his eyes. “You’re not scared of me?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “I’m scared for you.”

The words settled heavily between us.

“Because you don’t deserve to carry all of this alone. And because if something happens to you before you get that moment—before you get that choice—it would be a goddamn tragedy.”

I swallowed hard. “You make me feel like I’m not some broken girl they found in a hospital bed in one of those gross gowns.” I tried to make light of it, but it died in my throat.

“You’re not,” he said. “You’re a deadly weapon forged in the fires of hell. If I ever get the chance, I’ll help you finish it. Whatever it takes. Just say the word.”

I pressed my forehead to his, our breaths mingling. “Thank you, Tex.”

He closed his eyes. “Anytime, Isobel.”