CHAPTER FORTY-TWO #2
I’m still fighting when he grabs my right arm and slams it down, driving his pocketknife into my forearm, straight through the flesh.
The pain is instant, searing, like fire. A scream tears out of my throat, so loud it echoes in my ears.
My whole body trembles, but Tyler doesn’t stop. He drags the blade deeper, and blood runs from the wound, soaking the sleeping bag beneath me, warm and thick.
“I put my mark on everything I own. Usually, I use paint. On people? Tattoos.” Tyler runs his tongue along his bloody teeth.
“The birds before you? I branded them where I liked best—breasts, ass, belly, even the thigh. But you… you’re special.
We shouldn’t wait for a tattoo, right?” His grip tightens.
“James Hill’s girl. The man who killed my brother.
Your mark needs to be deeper. Everyone needs to see it. ”
A shiver crawls up my spine. Then the knife moves again… and I finally understand.
He’s carving his mark into me.
His bird.
His fucking brand.
“No! Please! Stop!” I scream, thrashing. But I’m trapped—one arm useless from my broken fingers, the other pinned down by his knife, carving into me like he’s just doodling on paper.
I choke on my own hiccups, tears pouring down my face. I just want to go home. But where even is that now? We lost every home we ever built. The world made sure of that.
Last time we talked about Northern Lights, we were at the fire station, and Alicia was with us. Michael asked her to come with us, and she and I kept annoying the boys, saying we wanted our houses painted pink.
Alicia. She was a warrior. An Outsider. And still, she didn’t survive Tyler.
So how the hell can I?
I blink, and more tears spill down my face. My eyes flick from Tyler to the ceiling, then land on my arm, drenched in blood. It’s flowing out of me like a river, inching toward my copy of The Secret Garden, still lying on the floor.
My body shakes, searching for something to hold onto. Something to ground me. Something to stop the pain. That’s when I see James’s pocket watch, still resting on top of my book.
And then it’s just… James.
The way his hand finds mine every morning. The way his mouth curls when he calls me little danger. The way he chuckles as he plays with my braids.
For a second, I’m with him again… safe.
A sharp sting yanks me right back into the nightmare.
Tyler’s blade leaves my skin, but the pain lingers, throbbing, alive, eating me from the inside out. He wipes the bloody knife on his sleeve, then slides it back into his jacket. Finally, he shifts and lets go of my arm.
I should move. I should fucking run.
But I’m too tired. My body’s numb.
And even if I fight him again, I’ll lose. He’s stronger. He’ll break something else, maybe worse this time. And I’ll still be here. Still trapped. Still stuck in this tent with a monster.
I hear something outside.
Footsteps? Voices? I’m not sure if I’m imagining it—
“Russell, Oliver, quit the fucking noise. I wanna hear her cry,” Tyler barks over his shoulder.
More noise. Cracking branches. Muted shouts.
“You son of a b—”
A different voice.
“How the fuck—”
I stare at Tyler, but he’s not even paying attention to what’s happening outside the tent anymore. His dark eyes devour me, and he’s breathing in short, heavy pants. He’s not finished with me yet, not until he’s done making me his.
“Do you want to hear the rest of the rules while I fuck you?”
He grabs my thighs and forces my legs apart, shoving himself between them.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be in this moment.
“Rule number six,” he growls, peeling off his jacket and throwing it to the floor. “You don’t have a name anymore. You’re just ‘bird’ now. Disobey me, and I’ll rip the voice right outta your throat.”
My whole body tenses.
“Rule number seven.” He yanks my torn shirt to the side, his hands sliding over my ribs. “You don’t hide what belongs to me. When I say take it off, you take it off. Shirt, bra, whatever I want. If I have to ask twice…” His teeth flash. “I’ll rip it off myself. Just like I did.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“Rule number eight.” He clamps his hands around my thighs. “If I say bend down, you do it. When I say kneel, you kneel. If I say open your mouth, you fucking take it. Like a good little bird.”
My stomach turns.
“Rule number nine,” he hisses, popping open the first button of his jeans. “You thank me after every punishment. Say it sweet. Like you mean it. Like I’m doing you a favor.”
Tyler’s hands move to his zipper, but he pauses, tilting his head with a cruel smirk.
“You know, I was gonna save this for later. But it just feels right, sayin’ it now.
Right before I take a taste.” He leans closer, his breath hot and sour against my face.
“See, James Hill thought he was untouchable. Thought he could walk away from Texas, leave behind what he started, and go play house with you. But he was wrong. And when I’m done here, I’m gonna remind him.
I’ll cut him open, one slice for everything he did as an Outsider against us.
You wanna see that? Watch him scream for you?
” He chuckles. “Who knows, maybe he bleeds out, maybe he doesn’t. But I promise you, he’ll feel it.”
For a second, I can’t breathe.
Not from fear, but from rage.
It climbs up my chest like fire, tightening everything inside me. My good hand clenches, nails digging into my palm. The other just twitches, broken and useless. I don’t even feel the pain anymore. Just pressure. Just heat.
All I can think about is James. Not me. Whatever happens to me, fine. I’ll take it. But I won’t let Tyler lay a hand on James. Not again.
James has already saved me, more than once. It’s my turn to save him.
Still, I don’t say a word. I just stare at Tyler, holding all that fury under my skin.
“Look at you, so easy to break,” he says.
But what Tyler doesn’t know is I’ve been broken before. Again and again. My whole life’s been a series of injuries—fractures, cuts, bruises from stupid little accidents. Pain never made me weaker. It made me stronger. James was right about that.
I force myself to focus, my mind to push past the pain in my arm. And James’s voice drifts through my head, strong as ever.
“Always hide your weapon in the most unexpected place.”
My pocketknife!
I draw a sharp breath. My heart pounds like a trapped bird against my ribs as I reach under the pillow. My fingers graze the handle, and I grip it tight. Unshaken.
Tyler’s hand slides down his zipper.
“Where did I stop?” he mutters, almost to himself. “Right… r—”
“Rule number ten,” I say. “You cut something of mine; I’ll cut something of yours.”
The knife rips free from under the pillow, and I drive it straight into his throat. The blade sinks deep, all the way to the hilt.
Tyler’s lips part, but no sound comes.
No more rules.
I drag the blade sideways, slicing his throat like he’s just another animal I hunted. Then I rip the knife free. His blood gushes—hot, slick—spilling over my hand and soaking into his perfect fucking shirt.
He staggers, hands flying to the gaping wound, thumbs holding his throat together as if he can somehow undo what I just did.
I meet his eyes one last time, but they’re hollow now, like he’s already gone.
His body sways, stumbles, then collapses to the side. Dead.
I push myself up, ignoring the sharp pain ripping through my back. My legs shake, unsteady, but I manage to stagger away from Tyler’s lifeless body.
A life ended by my hands. And I don’t even feel sorry.
What does that say about me?
I take one step back. Then a second. And one more. I don’t even realize I’ve made it out of the tent until the morning light hits my skin, bright and comforting.
The camp is at my back now, but my gaze stays locked on the tent flap because part of me still thinks Tyler might move.
My hands are covered in his blood. Red. So red. I can’t even see my own skin beneath it.
The pocketknife slips from my fingers and clatters to the ground. I take another step back, legs shaking, knees weak, exhaustion crashing down on me.
And then I let myself fall… but I never hit the ground.
Strong arms catch me. I stop falling, and for a moment, I don’t even know whose arms are holding me.
I twist in them, blinking, my vision still blurry but clearing just enough to take him in.
James.
Somehow, he’s behind me. The ropes that had bound his wrists hang in shreds.
“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
I rest my head against his chest, my body sagging into him. And for the first time since I woke up tonight—since the nightmare began—I breathe. Really breathe.
My bloody hand rests over his heart. My fingertips press into his shirt, feeling the strong, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat.
He’s warm and safe and mine.
I smile as one tear slips down my cheek. “James.”
But it’s not just him. Michael stands beside James, his face pale, jaw clenched, but his green eyes… they’re all softness.
“Michael.”
I reach out, my shaking hand brushing his cheek, the same cheek streaked with blood. He covers my hand with his own, and without a word, he presses a kiss to the top of my head. It’s something he’s done a million times before. Every time I got hurt. Every time I was scared. Every time I needed him.
I close my eyes, letting their arms shield me from the world.
We’re safe.
We’re together.
We survived.
But then that dream about being a butterfly comes back to me. And I wonder how I’m supposed to fly now… when Tyler already cut off my wings.