Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Freak
Becky
Jackson stumbles a step away from me, then regains his footing. He whirls to find Carrson standing there, so angry a vein pulses at his temple like a warning.
“Why?” Jackson says lightly, smoothing a hand over his shirt where Carrson grabbed him. “Is she yours?”
Carrson doesn’t answer. He looks right past Jackson.
To me.
“You okay?”
I nod. “I’m fine.”
It’s a lie. We all know it.
Jackson’s attention flicks between us, and he grins, entertained in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
“Keep a leash on your pet,” he tells Carrson. “She’s been wandering.”
Carrson moves before the words finish leaving Jackson’s mouth. His hand shoots out, grabbing Jackson by the front of his shirt and slamming him back into the wall hard enough to rattle the doors. The sound ricochets down the hallway. A quiet gasp rises from below.
Jackson grunts, more surprised than hurt, but he recovers fast, shoving back, trying to break Carrson’s grip.
“Watch out,” Jackson says. “You’re getting territorial—”
Carrson drives his forearm into Jackson’s throat, pinning him. Not enough to choke but enough to subdue.
“Don’t,” Carrson warns.
Fury flashes across Jackson’s face. His eyes drop to the men watching from below. The boy is back with blood under his nose. I bet he’s the one who went and got Carrson.
Jackson raises his voice, loud enough for them to hear. “As usual, Carrson Ashford loses his shit,” he calls out. “Like he did with his father.”
He runs his eyes over Carrson, his mouth curving with contempt.
“Don’t worry, Carrson,” he adds. “We all know you can’t get it up.”
The punch comes fast.
It’s not until his fist crashes into the side of Carrson’s face that I understand all those words were a distraction.
A way for Jackson to get in position without Carrson noticing.
Carrson’s head rocks backward from the blow, his lip splitting in a thin gash.
Blood trickles from Carrson’s mouth and down his neck.
I expect Carrson to be furious, but instead he grins. “So that’s how you want it?” Calmly he drops Jackson’s shirt and steps back, his hands balling as he drops into a position I’ve seen many times before, at the punching bag, with his knees bent and fists up. Ready.
“It’s been what?” he adds lightly. “A year since you last challenged me?” He says it in an offhand way, like they’re discussing ordinary things. The weather. What sports team will win the championship. “Let’s see if you’ve learned anything.”
Jackson mirrors him, raising his fists, bouncing lightly on his toes.
“Oh, I’ve picked up a thing or two.” His gaze slides to me. “Let’s raise the stakes,” he adds. “Winner gets Ashford House.”
A beat.
“And the girl.”
“She’s not up for discussion,” Carrson growls.
He drives forward, shoulder ramming into Jackson’s side, sending him crashing back into the wall beside me. The impact shudders through the hallway.
I turn as the portrait of Carrson’s ancestor tears loose from the wall and crashes to the floor.
The gilt frame splinters on impact, glass breaking across his face in a spiderweb of fractures, one cutting straight through his eyes.
Shards fly into the air. I flinch, turning away, my hands flying up to shield my face.
Jackson twists, slipping under Carrson’s arm and tearing free in the same motion. His fist snaps out, catching Carrson hard in the side. Carrson lets out a short grunt, already turning, tracking as Jackson retreats, light on his feet in a way that shouldn’t match his size.
They circle.
I press back against the wall, my palms flat, like I can disappear if I try hard enough.
They’re matched in height, but Carrson moves differently, leaner, more accurate, every shift premeditated.
Jackson swings wide, but Carrson ducks under it, the motion clean and efficient, and comes up right inside his space.
Before Jackson can reset, Carrson’s fist drives forward and connects square with his face.
I flinch at the crack of bone.
Jackson howls, staggering back as blood gushes from his nose. It spills down his chin to stain his shirt. A dark, fleeting satisfaction cuts through me as I remember the boy downstairs, the way he folded under Jackson’s fists. How his nose bled too.
“You’re such a freak, Carrson,” Jackson spits, backing away as Carrson advances, steady, unhurried. “You only rule here because you’re good with your fists. But you’re no leader.”
“Shut up,” Carrson hisses, his voice low, poisonous.
Jackson drags his gaze over Carrson, then shakes his head, his mouth twisting with disgust. “Pathetic. The first Ashford to fail. Tell me, how does that feel? We all know when we leave here, I’ll be the one in charge. Thanks to you, my dad already leads The Order.”
Carrson’s hands are still curled into fists, knuckles whitening, but he doesn’t lunge. He waits.
Jackson keeps moving, circling, baiting, trying to pull a reaction out of him.
Carrson doesn’t give it.
“All those ancestors of yours,” Jackson sneers. “Hundreds of years. They must be rolling over in their graves.”
“I’m not warning you again.” Carrson moves. One step. That’s all it takes. His hands close on Jackson’s shoulders, his grip locking in place, and before Jackson can react Carrson pivots and uses his momentum against him.
In a split second, Jackson’s feet leave the ground.
Then he’s gone.
Hurled over the banister and out of sight, his startled yelp cutting off as he disappears.
Then…the crash below.
Without sparing me a glance, Carrson grips the railing and vaults over it, dropping out of sight.
I rush forward, heart hammering, expecting to find them both sprawled on the floor, broken, but they’re already on their feet, moving toward each other again fast, on a collision course. As I watch from above, fists hit and blood splatters across the carpet.
Jackson fights like he’s trying to win.
Carrson fights like he’s already won. Methodical. Unflinching.
I grip the railing, air trapped in my throat.
Carrson rears back and delivers a hard, brutal hit to Jackson’s side that knocks him off balance long enough for Carrson to step in close and drive him back again.
Jackson swipes at him, catches him, drags him into a headlock.
Carrson bucks and they both topple, crashing into the coffee table.
It splinters, shattering under their combined weight.
Someone swears. The rest of the men shift back, giving them space.
Jackson shoves off the table and comes up swinging, but Carrson slips past him. Jackson lunges again, moving faster, frustration bleeding through, as Carrson meets him head-on. A jab snaps Jackson’s head back. Another drives into his gut.
I don’t cheer. But I want to.
Jackson doubles over, wheezing.
“Fuck you, Carrson,” he grits out, dragging in air. “I’m taking this house, and now I’m definitely taking your girl.”
His hand jerks upward, pointing right at me.
I don’t step back. I plant my feet instead, meeting his stare.
“Better watch out, babe,” he says, swiping the blood from his mouth with his thumb. “I’m coming for you.”
Cold spreads through me at the way he says it, like a promise, but I glare back.
“Someone give me a knife,” Carrson says, holding out his hand.
The words are quiet. Emotionless. I’m sure I misheard him, that my mind is still ringing from the sound of fists meeting flesh, from the violence of it all.
Carrson wouldn’t really cut Jackson.
Wouldn’t really kill him.
Would he?
I turn to the other men for the answer and find it in the way they freeze. No one laughs. No one tells him to calm down. The air feels like it got sucked out of the room instead, the silence loud.
One of the brothers finally speaks, smaller than the others and wearing thin, wire-rimmed glasses, his voice careful. “You can’t, Carrson. You know what’ll happen.”
Carrson doesn’t acknowledge him. His hand remains extended, palm open, waiting.
My gaze darts between him and the rest of them, trying to decide if this is part of the fight or another thing entirely. But no one moves. No one reaches for anything. It’s suddenly, horribly clear that there’s a line here none of them are willing to cross.
At last, Carrson lowers his arm. Not reluctantly or with embarrassment. More like he’s swallowing something bitter.
“Fine,” he says. “We do it the hard way.”
He hooks a hand into Jackson’s shirt, hauls him in, and drives his fist into his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. Jackson barely has time to react before Carrson takes him down, grabbing the back of his neck and slamming him forward.
Jackson hits the floor hard, head first, and this time he doesn’t get back up. He lies there, slumped and unmoving at Carrson’s feet.
I should be focused on Jackson. I know I should.
But all I can see is Carrson, blood streaked across his face and on his hands, his breathing slow, like none of it required effort in the first place.
My stomach twists, then warms. I hate that I notice the shape of his muscles and the way the rest of the men back up, deferential, when his attention goes to them.
I can’t seem to stop.
Carrson’s eyes lift until they land on me.
His anger is unmistakable, contained in a way that only makes it worse, and I realize the fight hasn’t ended so much as turned.
My throat goes dry.
I’m in trouble.