Chapter 5
Chapter five
Dirt
Becky
I get to the clearing before Carrson the next day.
Perfect.
The air carries that late-November bite to it. I feel it in my teeth when I inhale. The trees are mostly bare, their branches thin and skeletal, the last few leaves clinging like they don’t know they’re already dead.
I set everything up like I belong there. Books. Paper. Pencils. Water bottle. My blanket barely softens the ground, it’s a thin layer over cold, packed earth and brittle leaves that crunch when I move. My headphones hang around my neck, music spilling faintly from them at full volume.
Curious, I wander over to the tree, the knives still buried deep in the trunk.
I work each one loose, the wood resisting before finally giving with a rough pull.
They’re heavier than I expected, the handles worn smooth from use, the blades sharp enough that when I test one lightly against my thumb a thin line of blood forms, stinging in the cold air.
I adjust my grip, trying to balance the hilt the way I saw Carrson do yesterday, then pull back and throw, watching the knife fall short and sink uselessly into the dirt.
Hmm. I grab another and release sooner this time, but it only hits the trunk with a dull thud before bouncing off and landing at my feet.
I groan. Carrson makes this look effortless, but it isn’t.
I try again. And again. Ten throws before one finally sticks, barely.
A quick check of my watch shows he should be here soon.
I replace the knives, angling them deep into the wood the same way he did.
I’m about to turn away when a slow smile spreads across my face.
Seconds later, the knives sit a few inches away from where he left them, blades tilted up instead of down.
It’s subtle. Wrong enough that he’ll notice.
Still smiling, I retreat to my blanket and settle in, book open in my hands, body loose, relaxed, like I’ve been here the whole time.
Time drags. The cold seeps in slowly, settling into my fingers first, stiffening them before creeping up my arms in a dull, steady ache. I force myself not to check the tree line. If he’s there, I want him to think I haven’t noticed.
It’s a subtle shift in the air that finally gives him away.
I glance up. He’s standing at the edge of the clearing, motionless, his gaze already on me, as if he’s been there longer than I realized. Annoyance darkens his expression.
Good.
I love that look on him.
At the sight of him, my heart launches into a sprint, but I don’t let it show. I lift my chin and meet his stare. Then I deliberately drop my eyes back to the book.
Carrson stalks over to the edge of my blanket and glares. His shadow spills over me, blocking what little warmth the sun provides.
“Get out,” he growls. His voice is low, fierce in a way that makes the words louder than if he’d shouted.
“No.” I push up to sitting.
He kicks dirt onto the fabric. Dry leaves and twigs scatter across it, catching in the folds.
“Hey!” I protest, glaring at him. “Didn’t your mom teach you any manners?”
“I don’t have one, so no,” he snaps, kicking again. “There are a million places to go in these woods,” he says. “Find somewhere else.”
It isn’t a suggestion. It’s a command, delivered like he’s used to being obeyed.
“I like it here.” I drop my gaze back to my book, as if I’m completely unbothered. Let’s see how he handles being ignored.
He stomps the ground, so hard it kicks up a puff of dust.
I don’t react. Don’t even look up. I reach out and turn a page as if he’s background noise instead of a six-foot threat with a temper.
“Christ.” He spins away, ripping his shirt off with one hand. The muscles of his back shift with the motion, all those defined curves and lines. My eyes betray me immediately. They fly to him and then stick.
God. He really is beautiful.
That’s when I notice it, a cross-shaped mark right over his shoulder blade.
I don’t know how I missed it the day before.
It’s almost as big as my palm except it’s not a normal cross.
Each arm is equal length. It’s more of a plus sign, like when you do addition.
I squint, trying to figure it out. It’s too symmetrical to be a scar and not dark colored, so not a tattoo.
What could carve that shape in someone’s skin?
Carrson goes to the knives first, pulling them free from the trunk before pausing with his back to me, inspecting the blades for so long that I fidget under the silence.
Finally, he turns, lifting one. “Did you touch these?”
“Me?” I feign innocence, widening my eyes. “No.”
He looks at me, my hands, my face. Then back to the knives. His frown deepens. He knows.
I peer over the top of my book, watching as he grips each knife in a fist, knuckles whitening, and turns his body my direction. Nervous energy spikes up my spine.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it?
He takes a step closer, and the knife catches the light, blinding me. Carrson balances the blade lightly in each hand, the way I tried earlier and failed. His hand lifts, and I have to remind myself:
If I flinch, I lose.
If I run, he wins.
So I stay.
Carrson’s fingers tighten around the knife, tendons shifting. The tip points right at me.
It’s the same as yesterday. That sick little thrill. The dreadful curiosity, like I’m outside my body, watching this happen and waiting to see how far he’ll go. His eyes hold mine. Alive. Full of intent.
I think he might…
Then, whatever he was about to do, he doesn’t.
The tension snaps as he pivots away in one smooth motion without resetting his stance and throws, acting like that was his plan all along. The knife slams into the bark with a sharp thwack. It sinks deep into the trunk, splitting the wood. Another follows. It lands right next to the first.
My heart slows, my pulse lagging. After that, he doesn’t look at me again. I stretch out on my stomach and prop my chin on my hand, my eyes fixed on the open page in front of me, but I don’t read a single word.
Behind me, he moves. The crunch of leaves under his feet, the subtle shift of his weight.
I track it all without looking, each sound mapping him in my mind with more clarity than sight ever could.
The scrape of steel follows as he pulls one of the knives free from the tree, then the crack of wood as it hits again, deeper.
A slow rage builds in me as I listen. At him and all the others like him.
If people like Carrson Ashford actually cared, Remi would be here.
It’s not logical. I know that. The world doesn’t bend because someone deserves it.
Doesn’t matter. I still feel it, the bitterness, the fury, every time I see him.
He has power. The kind most people never glimpse.
The kind that could change things, quietly but decisively.
If I had what he has, I wouldn’t waste it.
I wouldn’t be out in the woods torturing a tree to death.
I’d be in a boardroom or sitting in Congress the way his father and grandfather used to.
I’d be building schools. Solving wars. Most of all, funding medical treatment so no one had to watch their loved one vanish a little at a time.
The knives stop, and the heavy, rhythmic sound of the punching bag takes over. He hits it harder than yesterday, a steady, punishing cadence that vibrates through the ground. I keep my eyes on the page, but I can sense it. The force of him. The violence that practically radiates off him.
As twilight darkens the sky, his rhythm changes.
Each hit lands with less force before stopping altogether.
The clearing falls into a strange, suspended quiet.
I don’t look up, even when I hear him coming toward me, his footsteps unmistakable through the dry leaves.
He stops behind me and stays there. Watching me.
I pretend to read, as if I don’t notice. Don’t care. But every part of me is tuned to him.
“Touch my things again,” he says finally, “and next time I won’t stop myself.”
That’s it. The sound of his footsteps fades into the woods, swallowed up by the quiet until all that’s left is the hum of insects.
I sit up, brushing dirt and leaves from my jeans. A look at the tree shows Carrson took his knives with him this time. He didn’t trust me enough to leave them, which is fair.
One corner of my mouth lifts as I look down the path where he disappeared.
Next time. That’s what he said.
Now I don’t have to chase you.
You’ll come to me.