Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Run
Becky
I know he’s there before I step into the clearing. I can hear him, the knives hitting the tree, metal against wood, the hollow crack of it. It doesn’t belong out here, not in a place this quiet.
The woods swallow most sound, press it down into damp earth and leaf rot, but this refuses to stay buried. Each impact breaks through the stillness until I’m anticipating it, waiting for the next hit before it comes.
I follow it.
The path narrows the deeper I go, branches crowding in until they brush my shoulders, catching at my sleeves, dragging lightly over my skin like they’re trying to stop me.
The air changes too, cooler, heavier, like I’ve crossed into a different realm, set apart from the real world.
At the edge, the trees form a rough circle, their branches leaning inward as if they’ve closed ranks. Guarding him.
I try to keep quiet and sneak up on him. I don’t know why. Maybe because I like his expression when he’s surprised. Of seeing him slip, a crack in his control. It feels worth chasing.
I fail.
He’s already waiting for me when I step into the clearing, shirtless as usual, leaning casually against the tree with one shoulder braced against the scarred bark. A knife balances on its point against his fingertip. The blade perfectly steady in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
I pretend not to be impressed.
I halt across the circle, the safest distance from him. I’m not sure how he’ll react to me, if he’s still angry, or if he found out I was in his office.
It would’ve been smarter to avoid him today. To leave him alone and let things cool off. That was the plan when I woke up this morning in Rosewood Hall, in an unfamiliar room with a pink bedspread and white lace curtains.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, voice flat. “I told you to stay put.”
“I think we’ve already established that I don’t follow your orders.” I arch a brow.
“Indeed,” he says, his gaze moving over me. He quirks his head. “What are you wearing?”
The question throws me for a loop. I glance down, suddenly aware of the fabric against my skin in a way I hadn’t been before, the way the white belted jumpsuit clings and traces curves I usually keep hidden beneath loose, forgettable clothes.
I’m not used to this. Clothes have always been about utility and coverage, whatever was cheapest, lasted longest, didn’t draw attention.
This is different. Softer. Fitted. Expensive.
The nicest thing I’ve ever worn.
Warmth creeps up my neck, but I force myself not to fidget, not to tug at the fabric and ruin the illusion.
“It’s Louellen’s,” I say, brushing it off lightly even as I take a step closer. “She let me borrow it.”
His brows draw in slightly, like he’s working through an idea, and I brace myself for an insult. That it doesn’t suit me. That I’m playing dress-up. That I’ve misjudged the shape of my body.
“I like it,” he says finally. “You hide in those oversized sweaters, and you shouldn’t. This…” His eyes roam over me again, slower now, and everywhere they touch heat blooms. “This suits you.”
I duck my head, suddenly shy and a little overwhelmed. A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it, small and helpless and entirely his fault. My chest feels strange, full and fizzy. I don’t know what to do with any of it. Such little words, said so easily, shouldn’t make me feel like this.
“Umm…thanks. I’m going to get the rest of my things tonight,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Take them over to Rosewood.”
He nods once. “That’s good,” he says, like nothing shifted between us, like he didn’t see me in a way no one else has. Then, almost as an afterthought, “I’m still going to ream Lou for letting you out of her sight.”
“Don’t,” I say quickly. “She thinks I’m in class.” A leaf drifts down between us, tumbling, and I follow it to the ground, trying to hide how flustered his attention makes me. “I should be in class.”
“Why aren’t you?”
I shrug, my gaze dropping, fingers brushing absently at the smooth fabric at my waist. “I don’t know.” The answer is weak even to me. I hesitate, then add more quietly, “I wanted to…” I glance up at him, then away again. “Make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” He pushes off the tree and comes toward me, and it’s only then that I see the way his left foot drags with each step.
“Then why are you limping?” I ask, as I walk over to him.
The trees shift overhead, a break in the branches letting a shaft of light fall across his face, and I catch the swelling around his eye, the dark bruising already setting in.
“And your eye, what happened?” My hand comes up to my mouth. “Did Jackson come back?”
“No.” He reaches up and gingerly prods at his eye, then grimaces. “I fought three more brothers last night.” A pause. “Two of them at once.”
“What?” The word comes out high, overly loud.
I step closer again, close enough now that I can see the faint sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, the way he holds himself slightly off balance, how he’s favoring his side.
Understanding sets in slowly, the pieces aligning no matter how badly I want to ignore them. This didn’t happen on its own. I ignored his note. I made myself visible.
And he’s the one who paid for it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, quieter now. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t—”
“It’s fine,” he answers, and I hear it, the finality, as if he’s already moved past it. “I brought you in. Jackson’s always waiting for an opportunity to knock me down. If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been another thing.”
I hesitate, then press anyway. “Then why the others? Why did they want to fight you? Were they Jackson’s friends?”
“Jackson doesn’t have friends,” he says dryly. “He has flunkies.” His mouth twists faintly, then smooths out again. “Not that I’m one to talk. I don’t have friends either.”
He says that like it’s not a big deal, but I know better.
I think back to the fight yesterday. How none of his fraternity brothers cheered for him or congratulated him. There’s always distance with Carrson. He stands out of reach, even when he’s close. Nothing about him ever relaxes, like letting someone in isn’t even an option.
He’s alone. Even in a house full of brothers. Even as he leads them.
It should make me step back, but if anything, it makes me want to close the distance between us.
Maybe because I recognize it.
The empty space where someone is supposed to stand.
“That’s not why we fought, though.” He exhales, drawing my attention back to him. Carrson kicks at a rock on the ground, watches it roll away. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try,” I say, my hands twitching as I resist the urge to reach for him, to check the bruising to see how far it goes.
“At Ashford House,” he says, after a pause like he had to think about his answer, “we fight for leadership. Literally. Whoever wins leads.”
My eyebrows lift at that. My gaze moves past him, landing on the battered bag, the knives embedded deep into the trunk, the bark around them shredded.
“That’s why you’re out here,” I murmur. “You’re training.”
He nods once.
“Well?” I ask. “Did you win?”
“The fights?” His lips tug into a small, self-satisfied smirk. “If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I always win.”
I roll my eyes at that, and he lets out a small laugh, like he knows he’s bragging.
“I beat Jackson last night,” he continues, his tone shifting.
“That doesn’t mean he isn’t a threat.” His eyes fix on me.
“That’s why you shouldn’t be here. Definitely not alone.
I don’t trust him. Now he knows who you are…
” A pause. “There’s a good chance he comes after you. Even if it’s to get back at me.”
I think about that, about hiding, shrinking my world around someone else’s danger, and I don’t like it. I push back hard.
“I think you underestimate me,” I say, lifting my chin.
“Oh, really?” His mouth tugs, and he lifts one eyebrow, not dismissive. Interested.
“Yes.” I flick my hair over my shoulder, playing it up because he’s watching. “I can be pretty ruthless when I want to be.”
“Can you now?”
He’s smiling, more openly than I’ve seen before, and it does a strange thing to my chest, knocks something loose. Makes me want to keep going.
“Totally,” I say, feeling confident. “I can avoid Jackson. Plus if he finds me, I’ll run.”
“Run.” He repeats like he’s testing the word and finding it lacking. “That’s your plan? To run?”
I nod, completely serious. “I ran track in elementary school. I’m fast.”
“Are you.”
It’s not really a question.
Before I can decide what that means, he steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that the space between us nearly disappears. He leans in. “If you’re so speedy…” his breath hits my ear, hot and dizzying, “prove it. Let’s see how long it takes me to catch you.”
“What?” I manage, but my voice comes out way too high, almost a squeak.
“I’m injured,” he says calmly, gesturing to his ankle. “I’ll even give you a head start.”
I glance around at the trees, at the uneven ground, at the way the clearing suddenly feels less like a sanctuary and more like a hunting ground. “Here? You want me to run here?”
“Why not? You’re wearing sneakers,” he says, like it’s obvious.
I let out a high-pitched laugh, full of nerves, even as a traitorous thrill bolts up my spine. “This is ridiculous. I’m not running from you—”
“One.”
My heart picks up faster, like it’s already trying to outrun him.
“Carrson—”
“Two.”
His eyes are on me now, in a way that makes it hard to think clearly, like the rules just changed and I didn’t see when it happened.
“This is dumb. I’m not—”
“Three. Better hurry.” The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “You’re almost out of time.”
My breath comes faster, my feet already turning, already deciding.
“Four.”
And then I’m moving.