Chapter 9 Lottie
Lottie
Morning sunlight spills through the window, warm and golden, but it does nothing to soothe the throb in my shoulders and the dull ache settling into every corner of my body.
I peel myself out of bed before Archer or Oscar wakes up.
They’re still twisted in the sheets, Oscar’s hand resting loosely where my waist had been, Archer’s leg thrown possessively over the mattress in my direction.
If either of them noticed I’d slipped in last night—sweaty, sore, and half-limping—they didn’t show it.
I move slowly, every muscle complains as I reach for the sweatshirt hanging over the back of the chair. It takes longer than it should to get it on. The fabric brushes over a bruise blooming just below my ribcage, and I wince.
I sneak into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and strip.
The mirror confirms what I already knew.
Shadowy smudges across my upper arms. A reddish mark on my collarbone.
A faint but definite imprint around my wrist from one of Claire’s holds.
I trace the edges of the bruise with my finger, not with fear, but pride.
Once, I would have cowered, tracing every bruise like it was a map of my wrongdoings, but now… I earned this.
Not by surviving. Not by running. But by fighting.
Still, I can already hear the way Archer’s voice would tighten if he saw it. Demanding to know what happened. The way Oscar’s eyes would flash with panic, the guilt that would follow when he thought he should’ve protected me from something again… But this isn’t something I need protection from.
This is something I chose for myself. So I could feel safer. Stronger.
So, I do what I have to do.
I shower, then redress, tugging the neckline of the sweatshirt higher, tucking the sleeves past my wrists.
Hair tied up to keep it from brushing the sore spot behind my ear, and a touch of concealer just in case.
My movements are deliberate but practiced.
You don’t survive drug-addict parents and people like Lorenzo without learning how to cover a bruise.
This time it feels different. Not shameful though it was never my shame to carry, and not a secret kept in fear of what would happen if people found out—it’s a secret I’m keeping for me… just for now.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, the house is still quiet.
I start the coffee, needing something to do with my hands, and when I’m done, Claire is already there.
She doesn’t say a word, only glances up from her place at the counter, where she’s slicing an apple with unsettling precision.
Her eyes scan me briefly. She sees the way I’m holding myself a little stiff, the slight drag of my left leg.
She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she slides the apple slices into a bowl and pushes them toward me. “Eat,” she says.
I sit, curling my hands around the coffee mug, steam curling into the air. “I’m sore,” I admit
Claire nods once, a satisfied glint in her eyes. “Good. If you weren’t, I’d be harder on you the next time.”
Footsteps echo down the hall, and before I can brace myself, Oscar is rounding the corner in nothing but joggers, eyes half-lidded and still sleep-heavy. Archer’s not far behind, a bit more alert, wearing one of those faded old band tees he never lets anyone borrow.
Oscar spots me first, his smile sleepy and sweet. “Morning, baby.” He signs, then steals my coffee and takes a sip.
“Hey!” I rapidly sign and attempt to grab my mug back.
Oscar hands it back, then turns to make his own. Archer eyes me more closely. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I lie, sipping my coffee too fast. The heat burns my tongue, but I don’t flinch.
Oscar pads back over and presses a kiss to the top of my head, arms draping loosely around my shoulders. I don’t lean into him like I usually do. It’s too sore, but he notices. His brows pull together. “You okay?”
“Just a little stiff,” I move my hands carefully, mindful not to move them too much so my sleeve doesn’t pull down. “Maybe slept a bit weird.”
Archer’s eyes narrow slightly. Always the more perceptive one. The one who can read my silence like a language of its own. “You sure?”
I smile through it and nod. “I’m sure.”
Claire clears her throat from the counter, drawing their attention away from me. She’s all innocence now, slicing another apple like she hadn’t practically thrown me to the mat over and over last night like a drill sergeant with something to prove.
“Have you eaten anything other than those apple slices?” Oscar asks me. When I shake my head, he moves toward the fridge, pulling out eggs and mushrooms, distracted by the idea of feeding me. Archer lingers, eyeing me like I might crumble. I won’t.
I can feel the bruises hidden beneath my clothes, warm and aching, and even though I’m exhausted, every inch of me feels worn out… something in me feels stronger. I’ll tell them, eventually, but not right now.
Right now, this fight is mine. A way for me to feel stronger without feeling like they have to rescue me. And tonight, after they’re asleep, I’ll meet Claire again in that room that no one but her knows about, and I’ll hit harder. Strike cleaner. Hopefully fall less.
The soreness hasn’t faded by lunchtime. My shoulders still throb, there’s a twinge when I shift my weight, and the side of my left thigh carries a bruise the size of a grapefruit. But I feel solid. Grounded.
I’m supposed to be visiting Roman in the hospital later with Claire, which is precisely why I’m in the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, cooking a pot of chili big enough to serve a minor army, or at least a few emotionally constipated men.
This isn’t just comfort food… It’s a mission.
I’m just finishing the base—ground beef browned with onion and garlic, tomato paste being cooked out, when Claire enters.
“Did you get it?” I call out.
Claire holds up a paper bag like it contains something sacred. “I had to hit the farmer’s market. These are fresh from the stall where the vendor just cackled when I asked if they were hot.” She steps closer, eyeing the bubbling pot on the stove, and grins. “How’s your revenge chilli going?”
“Almost ready for phase two,” I say, nodding toward the bag. “Did you get the kind that makes people cry, or the kind that makes them hallucinate?”
She pulls out a small container. “No clue. Let’s find out.”
I laugh. More than I probably should, but there’s something about this. The absurdity. The control. The simple joy of being able to get revenge from something as simple as pain on a spoon without making someone bleed… it feels like victory.
Claire dumps a generous spoonful of chopped peppers into the pot just as footsteps thud down the hallway. Oscar appears first, hoodie half-zipped. “Something smells dangerous…” he pauses next to me, and leans over the pot, recoiling instantly. “Jesus, Lottie. This is a war crime.”
Archer follows a moment later, his voice raspy with sleep from his nap. “Is my girl making revenge chili?”
Claire doesn’t even try to hide her smile. “She is.”
“You look proud, Mom. Did you put her up to this?” Archer asks her, his tone accusing.
“So what if I did. Just because that boy is laid up in a hospital bed doesn’t absolve him of his crimes…”
Archer snorts, crossing his arms. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”
Claire cuts him off. “Not in this house. You should know that. In this house, revenge is served, hot, spicy, and with a side of gastrointestinal regret.”
Oscar huffs. “God. We’re all going to die.”
We all burst out laughing.
I lift my chin proudly. “Only if you eat it. Which you won’t, because I made a separate batch just for us.”
Archer leans against the counter, arms crossed, smiling in that half-amused, half-suspicious way he does. “Are they all going to be victims of the other batch?”
“Only if they are stupid enough to eat anything I hand them,” I chuckle.
Oscar snorts. “So yes.”
Claire hums. “I made sure of it. Asked the hospital staff only to give them slop. They’ve been complaining about the hospital food since last night. Told them you were bringing something extra special later.”
Claire holds her hand out for a high five, and I oblige her, then ladle the demon-spawn chili into two large containers. One for Roman, and the other two if they even dare. Then I carefully label them all, ensuring that I don't mix up the two different batches.
Oscar points to his. “That one better be the least spicy. You know I can’t handle it.”
The hospital room is bigger than it needs to be.
One of the ones meant for longer stays, with a view of the parking lot and chairs that are far from comfortable.
Roman’s sitting up, his IV arm draped across his lap.
His color’s better than yesterday, but he still looks like someone chewed him up and spit him out.
Elijah’s by the window, sipping bad coffee from one of the machines. Crew’s perched on the side of Roman’s bed, phone in hand. When we walk in, Roman’s face lights up. “Please tell me you’ve brought some real food.”
“I did. Homemade chili, though I’m not sure any of you deserve some.”
Crew groans dramatically. “If I have to eat one more cheese sandwich…”
I cut him off, pulling out the three containers. I hand one to Roman, and two to Crew and Elijah. “Enjoy.”
Archer and Oscar exchange a look, barely hiding their amusement as they pass out spoons. Crew cracks his lid open first. “Smells amazing.” He takes a bite. Pauses. Blinks. Then his mouth opens wide as he fans himself with one hand. “Holy—”
Elijah frowns and tastes his own. “It’s fine,” he says stubbornly. Then coughs loudly. Oscar leans against the far wall, eating from his own container with the most innocent expression I’ve ever seen on him.
Archer takes a spoonful of his and looks over at me. “You added extra paprika.”
I beam. “And none of the spice. That’s just for them.”
Roman’s already halfway through his container. He’s sweating… a lot, but he’s grinning like an idiot. “You’re an evil genius, Lottie,” he mutters around a spoonful of rice and chili. “I love it.”
Claire sits near the foot of his bed, casually steals a bite of his food. She doesn’t even flinch, just glances at me with pride. “You’re revenge tastes good.”
Elijah grabs a water bottle and downs half of it. “You’re all insane for eating this. I feel like I’m dying.”
“Pity you aren’t…” Archer grumbles under his breath. He moves closer to me. “Are you going to eat?”
I nod. “In a minute. I’m enjoying the show.”
Crew starts hiccupping, staring at me in a way I don’t want to even think about. “Revenge looks good on you, baby.” He winks at me, and I look away.
“I feel alive!” Roman announces, fist pumping the air. “Like I could get up and run a mile.”
“You’re on morphine…” Claire says dryly. “You won’t be running for a long time.”
“Yeah, because the idiot got himself shot,” Elijah snarks from his corner, his face still red.
Roman shrugs. “I regret nothing.”
I take a bite of my own chili, trying to ignore the mix of feelings that’s lingering in the room.
Roman’s sudden change from hating me to taking a bullet while trying to defend me.
The way my stomach flutters whenever Crew calls me baby.
How my stomach twists whenever I think about the fact that Elijah has a wife…
I lean into Archer’s side, and he drapes an arm around me.
Oscar moves to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of us.
Then Will walks in. Makes a straight line to Claire and presses a kiss to her forehead, soft and full of something that makes my chest ache.
“Have you talked to them yet, my love?” he asks.
“Not yet,” Claire says, smiling up at him with that dangerous twinkle in her eye—the same one she had last night, right before she tackled me to the floor like a maniac.
“Talk to us about what?” I ask, sitting up straighter.
Claire grins. “The new living arrangements.”