Chapter 26
Lottie
The beach is too bright.
The kind of light that doesn’t let you hide.
The waves glitter like someone smashed a mirror across the surface, throwing shards of sun back into my eyes.
I dig my toes into the sand, damp and cold beneath the top layer, and let the tide creep close enough to kiss my ankles before it slinks away again.
I finally feel like I can breathe again.
It’s been a few days since the gym, since all the men decided to punch their way into some warped version of peace. But I can’t deny it hasn’t been nice. There’s less glaring across the dining table, which is something I never thought would happen.
Now it’s quiet. Just the sea and me until I hear his voice.
“Scar?”
The nickname hits hard. I turn. Dad’s coming down the slope from the car park, jacket zipped, hands buried in his pockets, squinting against the light. He looks smaller than I remember—leaner, clearer. He doesn’t have that jitter in his step anymore, that glassy distance in his eyes.
Rehab stripped that from him. Sobriety carved it into him, but it doesn’t erase the years.
I swallow. “It’s Lottie now.”
He stops just long enough to nod, like he expected that answer, before continuing toward me. “Lottie, then.” His mouth twitches. “Sorry. Old habits.”
Old habits. Like the drugs. Like drowning himself in a bottle to try to drown out the guilt. I don’t move as he reaches me, just stare at the horizon. The water swells and falls, endless.
We start walking without deciding to, side by side, along the shoreline. He keeps his shoes on, careful not to touch the tide, while I let it sting my skin.
I want to feel the cold. I want it to remind me I’m here.
“You used to love this,” he says after a while, voice soft.
“I used to love a lot of things,” I answer.
That shuts him up for a few beats.
Finally, I break it. “I still do love it. It’s weird, you know? The place I feel the most peace is the same place I almost died.”
“I never meant for it to ever get that far. I… I should have been better. Should have protected you from Tracey,” Dad’s voice cracks, like everything is all too much.
“She’s still alive, you know.”
His shoulders tighten. “I know.”
“I hate her.” My voice is sharper than I intend, but I don’t take it back.
“I don’t care if that makes me a bad daughter.
She’s not a mum. She never was. She was a needle.
A bottle. A fist. She was every bruise I learned to cover and every night I lay awake listening to both of you screaming at one another. ”
Dad flinches.
“She made me believe I was worthless,” I continue, chest tight. “And you—” My throat closes, but I force it out. “You were so lost in your guilt that the drugs and alcohol were more important than me.”
He stops walking. Sand crunches under his shoes. “Scar—” He corrects himself. “Lottie… I know. And I’ll regret it until the day I die.”
I laugh, harsh and bitter. “Regret doesn’t undo it.”
“No.” His voice is steady, but low. “It doesn’t. But I need you to hear me say it. I was drowning in it, too. Doesn’t excuse it. Doesn’t make it less, but the day you walked through that door. You were a ghost. You were no longer the daughter I knew… They ruined you, and it was all my fault.”
My chest heaves. I want to scream, to hit him, to demand why the hell he didn’t try harder. But then I look at him—really look.
He’s sober. His eyes are clear. He’s standing here, steady for the first time in my life.
“Elijah shoved me into rehab,” he admits, staring out at the sea.
“I hated him for it. Thought he was self-righteous. But he was right. If I hadn’t gone, I’d be dead now.
” The wind whips my hair across my face.
I stare at him, at the lines etched deeper around his eyes.
“I’m not going back,” he says firmly. “Not ever. I’ve been clean since the day they locked that door, and I’ll fight like hell to stay clean.
I can’t fix the past, Scar—Lottie. But I want to be someone who deserves to stand here with you now. ”
The sincerity in his voice shakes something loose in me, something I’ve kept locked away.
I sink into the sand, pulling my knees up to my chest. He lowers himself beside me, grunting as his knees pop. For a while, we just sit there, gulls shrieking overhead, the tide creeping in and out.
“I don’t forgive you,” I whisper.
He nods, eyes on the horizon. “I don’t deserve it.”
“But…” My throat is tight, but the words push through. “I’ll try. If you keep trying, I’ll try.”
His hands tremble before he dares to rest one on mine. It’s tentative, careful, like he expects me to pull away.
I don’t.
The waves crash. The sun glares. For the first time in years, sitting here beside the man who failed me and is still somehow my dad, I let myself believe in the possibility of something I never thought I’d get.
I dress quickly.
Black leggings clinging to my legs, a fitted tank leaving me bare at the shoulders, and one of Archer’s old sweatshirts that still smells faintly of him. Not detergent. Not cologne. Just him.
My feet carry me down the hall. Quiet enough that the others won’t hear me.
Claire is waiting at the basement door before I even reach it, leaning against the frame like she’s been there all along.
“You ready?” she asks.
The words snag in my throat.
Ready? To be dragged back into everything I’d rather bury?
Ready to fall apart, or maybe put myself back together?
I don’t answer. Not out loud.
I just hold her gaze, steady, and nod once.
That’s enough for her. She opens the door without another word and starts down the stairs, her braid swinging like a whip. I follow, barefoot and silent, the cool tile giving way to rough concrete.
The lights are already on, golden and sharp, cutting shadows across the mat at the center. The weapons on the wall glint faintly, steel whispering a promise I try not to look at too long.
Claire waits near the mat, already dressed to fight. “Show me what you remember.”
Her words are less request, more order, like she’s daring me to disappoint her. My stomach twists tight, but I step onto the mat anyway. My feet plant, my fists rise. My heart pounds like a war drum—steady, steady. Like it knows what to do even if my head doesn’t.
Claire starts circling me. “No emotion yet. No anger. Just control.”
I move first. A jab, sharp and clean. A pivoting kick, fast and clumsy. She blocks both without effort, her movements liquid, like she’s dancing with my failure.
“Again.”
I strike again. Jab, kick, spin, duck. She blocks everything. Always one step ahead. My muscles burn, sweat pricks under Archer’s sweatshirt, but I welcome it. Pain means progress.
“You’re faster,” she says, and then her hand snakes out, catches my elbow mid-swing, and flips me hard onto the mat. The impact cracks through my bones. “But you still hesitate when you think.”
I groan, dragging myself up. “I’m thinking less now.”
“Good.” Her eyes narrow. “But not enough.”
This time, she doesn’t wait. Her leg whips up, a high kick snapping past my face. I barely dodge, stumbling. The air stings against my cheek where her heel nearly connects. My heart stutters, then surges as I sweep low at her legs.
She jumps easily, lands with grace, and strikes again.
We fall into rhythm—strike, block, dodge, counter.
My lungs sear, each breath a knife. Sweat soaks the sweatshirt until it clings like a second skin. Claire doesn’t relent. Doesn’t soften. But she doesn’t belittle either.
“Come on, Little Bird,” she spits suddenly, the nickname like poison, and I freeze.
The word slices through me. My chest locks.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, voice trembling.
“Why not?” she presses, eyes blazing. “It’s what he called you, wasn’t it?”
The world tilts. My hands tremble as I barely manage to block her strike. My body wants to collapse, to shrink.
“You gonna freeze again when someone says it?” she demands.
“Shut up.”
“No.” Her voice cracks like thunder. She drives forward, merciless. “Because the next time you hear it, it might be the last thing you ever hear.”
Anger ignites in me, molten and wild. I swing, wide and desperate. Too wide. She catches me, flips me down, pins my wrists to the mat like I’m nothing.
“Get up,” she barks, weight pressing me into the mat. “If Lorenzo says it, what will you do? Flinch? Cower?” Her face hovers over mine.
“Shut. Up.”
“Make me.”
The fire erupts. I shove her off with every ounce of strength I have, my body trembling with fury. I scramble up on my hands and knees, shaking all over, lungs clawing for air.
But Claire doesn’t come at me again.
She crouches across from me instead, her breath controlled, her eyes softer now. “You hate it because it made you feel small. Because it made you feel owned.”
The truth burns. I nod, unable to speak.
“I was thirteen when I got my name stripped from me,” she says, her voice quiet, steady. “They called me Doll. Told me I was pretty. Told me I was theirs. I spent years reclaiming my voice, Lottie. Years convincing myself I was more than what they took.”
Her words land heavy. I see her differently now—not just a fighter, not just a trainer, but a survivor clawing her way out of chains that never fully let go.
She isn’t teaching me how to fight Lorenzo. She’s teaching me how to fight the echo of him.
“I don’t want to be a survivor anymore,” I whisper, hoarse, shaking. “I want to be dangerous.”
Claire’s lips curve. “Then stop being afraid of the girl who lived through it. Let her out. She already knows how to survive. Teach her how to win.”
Something breaks open in me. Something raw, jagged, but steady.
We rise again.
This time, I don’t hesitate.
I move sharper, faster. My body still stumbles, but it’s fierce. When Claire strikes, I block. When she presses, I counter. When she grabs me from behind, I drop low, twist hard, and drive my elbow into her ribs.
She stumbles. My heart leaps. I freeze.
“Don’t stop,” she snaps, slicing through my hesitation.