Chapter 26 #2
But I falter anyway. Just for a breath.
She seizes my arm, yanks me forward, and sweeps my legs. I slam down hard, the mat jolting through my spine.
She hovers above me, not striking, not pinning. Just watching, her chest rising and falling.
“Do you know how many girls don’t get up?” she asks quietly, the sharpness fading from her voice.
Tears sting. “Too many.”
“Exactly.” She extends her hand.
My body aches, but I take it. Her palm is rough, strong, grounding as she hauls me to my feet. She doesn’t let go.
“You’re meant for more than survival,” she says, eyes burning with a fierce kind of love. “You’re meant to be your own goddamn rescue story.”
That undoes me.
The tears break. I surge forward, clutching her tight, burying my face in her shoulder.
And Claire—she doesn’t freeze. She doesn’t pull back. She holds me just as fiercely, her arms locked around me like iron, like she refuses to let me forget what I am.
For the first time in forever, I feel not just alive, not just surviving.
I feel unbreakable.
The next morning, I wake up sore in all the wrong places. My shoulders ache, my knuckles sting, and my thighs feel like they’ve been set on fire and left to cool overnight.
Claire’s words still echo in my head—You’re meant to be your own goddamn rescue story.
Well. Fine.
Time for a little payback rescue of my own.
Revenge therapy, if you will.
I slip out of bed quietly, tugging Archer’s hoodie over my head. It hangs off my shoulders like a shield, his scent still clinging to it. The house is quiet except for the low thud of bass coming from the gym. That’s my cue.
I pad barefoot down the hall, grinning like a thief in a fairytale.
All three of their bathroom doors are open—thank you, idiots, for your predictability—and the sound of weights clanging tells me they’re still mid-workout.
Perfect.
I pull the little pouch from my pocket. Super fine silver glitter. The expensive kind. It’s practically microscopic, so it won’t even show up until it’s too late. I open the first door—Crew’s—and tiptoe in. His bathroom smells like mint and something aggressively male.
“Sorry, baby,” I whisper to his shampoo bottle, “but this is what you get for stealing my snacks and calling me ‘Tiny Terror.’”
A careful twist of the cap. A slow pour. Just enough glitter to turn him into a disco ball when the light hits. I shake the bottle gently, cap it again, and put it back exactly where it was.
Then Roman’s bathroom. His stuff is too neat, like a serial killer’s. Everything aligned, symmetrical. I mess nothing up—just a sprinkle of silver chaos into his fancy cedar-scented shower gel.
Finally, Elijah’s. His shower smells like sharp citrus and arrogance. I grin, unscrewing the cap.
Once the job’s done, I seal everything back up and tiptoe out, silent and satisfied.
I barely make it back to the kitchen before the gym door opens and heavy footsteps echo down the hall.
The guys stumble in, drenched in sweat, shirts half-off, laughing about something stupid Crew probably said. They grab water bottles, still dripping.
I keep my face innocent as I mix cookie dough, humming to myself while Claire, Archer, and Oscar gather around the island. Will’s there too, arms folded, pretending to read something on his phone but absolutely watching everything.
“Morning, sunshine,” Crew says, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. His hair is dark with sweat. “You look suspiciously awake for someone who hates mornings.”
I arch a brow. “Maybe I just enjoy watching chaos unfold.”
Roman glances at me, suspicion flickering. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” I smile sweetly.
He squints but doesn’t press it. They all drift toward the showers, their voices fading down the hall.
I wait.
Ten minutes later, I hear them again.
Three doors open. Three sets of footsteps. Three unsuspecting idiots.
And then—
“WHAT THE—” Crew’s voice echoes first. “Why is there glitter on my towel?!”
Roman appears next, shirtless, dripping, his entire chest sparkling faintly under the kitchen lights. The sunlight from the window catches on his skin, turning him into something between a Greek god and a craft project gone wrong.
Elijah follows, equally shiny, his hair glittering like frost. He’s scowling hard enough to make the floorboards flinch.
The room goes dead silent for half a second—then Claire loses it. She bursts out laughing so hard she has to clutch the counter.
“Oh my god,” she wheezes. “You look like—like—”
“Like the Cullens,” Archer cuts in, smirking. When Roman, Elijah, and Crew stare at him, confused, he continues. “From Twilight.”
Will snorts. “Yeah, real menacing, lads. Sparkle harder.”
Oscar signs something, shoulders shaking. “Team Edward never looked so confused.”
That’s it. Claire howls. Even Will’s trying not to laugh.
Crew glances down at his glittering abs and groans. “Oh, for f— Lottie!”
I widen my eyes innocently. “What? You look… radiant.”
Roman rubs his face, silver flecks falling to the floor. “You’re still getting revenge?”
“I prefer being an artist,” I say, sliding a tray of cookies onto the counter. “Peace offering.”
Elijah eyes me suspiciously. “You baked?”
“Mm-hmm.” I hold up a spatula. “Apology cookies. For, you know… your fragile egos.”
Crew snatches one first, still grumbling. “At least she’s admitting it.” He takes a big bite… and freezes.
Roman takes one next, shrugs, bites in, and immediately frowns. Elijah follows, slow, skeptical.
There’s a beat of silence before Crew grimaces. “Why does it taste… weird?”
I can’t help it—I start laughing. I double over, clutching the counter. “Because,” I manage between giggles, “those are dog treats.”
Elijah stares at the cookie in his hand like it just betrayed him. “You fed us dog food?”
“It’s safe for humans!” I say, wiping tears from my eyes. “Peanut butter, oats, honey. Totally edible.”
Roman’s glare could burn through steel. “You fed us dog food?”
Claire leans against the counter, trying to catch her breath from laughing. “That’s my girl.”
Crew spits crumbs into the sink. “You’re lucky you’re cute, baby.”
I toss him a grin. “You’re lucky you sparkle, Glitter Boy.”
That earns another round of laughter from the rest of the room.
Elijah sighs, brushing glitter off his arms. “You realize this crap doesn’t come off easily, right?”
“Oh, I know.” I lick cookie dough off my finger. “That’s the point.”
Crew leans against the counter beside me, still glittering under the morning sun. “You know, you’ve started a war, right?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But I already won.”
He laughs, low and grudging. “We’ll see about that.”
The kitchen fills with their mock complaints, the sound of laughter and disbelief tangled together. For once, the weight that’s always pressing down—the trauma, the tension, the ghosts—feels lighter.
And as I watch them sparkle like cursed Christmas ornaments, I think maybe this is what healing looks like.