Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
Predator
Becky
Three steps into the forest, the heel of my shoe catches on a gnarled root and I trip, palms slamming into the dirt, knees scraping against rocks and twigs. The sting of shredded skin hits a second later. I don’t move. I stay there with my head hanging and my hair in my eyes.
I almost give up. Lay down. Let the dark close in.
Let everything end right where it began.
A sob shudders out of me, and I curl my fingers into the ground, clawing until the hard surface gives way and my nails break through. The dirt underneath is cool and damp, yielding as it parts around my fingers.
It soothes me. Grounds me.
How it’s soft enough to give, yet strong enough to stand on.
I stay like that until my breathing calms and my tremors fade.
Finally, I push myself up. I stand with my arms out, finding my balance in the uneven shadows.
When I look down, I see one heel has snapped clean off.
I slip both shoes off and stare at them, soft white leather now ruined by scratches and clumped with dirt.
A few hours ago, I put them on thinking I was stepping into my future. Something better.
Now they’re just proof of how stupid I am.
I have a brief vision of throwing them, smashing them just to hear them break. Instead, I drop them into the underbrush and leave them there, devoured by leaves and shadow.
The anger comes fast after that, burning through my veins like wildfire. I’m so sick of this. Of being hurt. Of ending up alone when everything falls apart.
Fuck that.
I hate them. The Order. Jackson. The lies, the secrets, the selfish way they make their decisions.
Carrson…No. Don’t think about him.
Not now.
The deeper into the forest I go, the more the air fights me. It doesn’t cool. It swelters, so hot it weighs me down. My clothes stick, damp at the back of my neck, between my breasts, along my spine. Each breath is harder than the last, as if I’m dragging it through water instead of air.
The ground turns treacherous under my bare feet. Roots burst through the soil like bones fractured through skin. Pebbles cut. Twigs stab. Something sharp slices across my heel, and I feel the sting before I feel the wet.
Every step is a choice—pain or standing still—and I choose pain.
Something snaps behind me, and I freeze, listening, but all I hear is the occasional chitter of an animal and the breeze stirring the leaves. It feels older here. A reminder that these woods existed before Ashford House was even a dream. Before there were men to give it a name.
I slow, trying to get my bearings, but the forest has no face. Everything looks the same, endless trees, endless shadow, no clear path forward or back. That’s when something colder than grief slips in, sharper than anger, more dangerous than either. Not sadness. Not fear.
Resolve.
If this place wants to beat me, it’s going to have to try harder than that.
I lift my chin and wipe the back of my hand across my face, smearing dirt and tears together, and keep walking. I think back to everything. The dining hall. Jackson. Carrson pushing me away. The anger, the hate, I carry changes direction.
It turns inward.
Because what the fuck was I thinking?
Standing there silent while Carrson and Jackson talked about me like I wasn’t a person, just a tool to be used.
An asset?
Really?
Then letting Carrson put his hands on me.
He shoved me. Pushed me down into the dirt, and, even worse, I let him.
I should’ve hit him back. Should’ve left a mark he couldn’t ignore.
Something that made him feel the fire he was trying to douse.
He doesn’t get to talk to me like that, treat me like I’m nothing.
What a jerk.
My jerk, but still.
I trudge along, my feet bleeding, each step grinding dirt into open skin. Branches snag my hair and rip strands out by the root, but I don’t slow. Don’t stop.
Pain is easy.
Thinking isn’t.
I make myself do it anyway, running through everything Carrson said, every word, every look.
He’s scared. Hurt. Humiliated. I get that.
Doesn’t mean we’re over.
I just need to make him see the truth, that we’re inevitable. No one’s ever going to challenge him the way I do. No one’s going to see him, the real him, the way I do.
And he’s the same for me. Anyone else would be boring.
He knows it. He’s just fighting it right now.
If that’s the game—I lift my head and scan, my eyes adjusting to the dark, making shapes out of shadow—I’ll play it better.
The noise has been building over the past few minutes. At first, I thought it was an animal prowling through the bushes. Then my stupid, hopeful heart leapt, and I thought it was Carrson, come to find me, but I’ve been testing it.
It moves when I move.
Stops when I stop.
Which makes it not Carrson. He’s not the type to hide.
No, this is a beast of a very different nature.
Lucky for me, the woods make sense again. A familiar bush to my right with flowers that are red in the daylight but darken to black in the shadows. Up ahead, I know how the ground slopes. I head to the spot where the trees separate so I can slip through without making noise.
I gradually turn left, forcing him to follow me into the dark, and he does. Less careful now, feet stomping, rocks skittering. Someone who doesn’t know how to move out here.
He gets closer, probably thinks I don’t know.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise, that primal warning blaring through my body, the one that tells you when someone’s watching. Hunting.
I almost grin, in control for the first time this evening.
There’s only one predator in these woods.
Me.
The trees fall away, and the clearing opens up before me. The worn-down patch of earth. The punching bag and the tree where Carrson left his blades, sunk deep into the bark like they belong there. The dark hilts blend with the wood, invisible unless you know where to look.
Home.
I take one more step and spin.
Jackson’s right behind me, just like I knew he would be.
He comes out of the dark fast, faster than I expected, a hand shooting for my arm, the other reaching for my throat. I twist just in time, his fingers grazing skin instead of locking down.
“Got you,” he breathes, close enough that I smell him, sweat and alcohol.
“No,” I snap, shoving hard against his chest.
He stumbles half a step, more surprised than hurt.
I don’t run.
I circle.
“Playing hard to get,” Jackson says with a grin, rolling his shoulders. “I like it.”
My pulse is loud in my ears, but it’s more adrenaline than fear.
“You followed me,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “That’s your first mistake.”
“No, Becky. My first mistake was letting you walk away from me earlier.”
He steps forward, and I match it, shifting to maintain distance, angling myself, keeping my feet moving, heading closer to the tree. Always closer to the tree.
“You should’ve taken my offer,” he goes on, voice low, coaxing. “Would’ve been easier.”
“Yeah?” I breathe. “Easier for you, you mean.”
He laughs at that. Then he lunges.
This time he gets me.
His hand clamps around my upper arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, yanking me forward. I slam into him as his other hand comes up, grabbing a fistful of hair and jerking my head back.
Pain flashes a blinding white behind my eyes.
“Stop fighting,” he says, voice dropping, ugly now. “You don’t get a say in this.”
I drive my knee up, hard, catching his thigh.
Not good enough.
He grunts but doesn’t let go, just grabs harder, dragging me back a step.
“You think Carrson’s going to come save you?” he says against my ear. “He threw you away. I watched the whole thing. How you cried. Begged. And he just stood there.”
There’s rage in his words, but it’s not at me.
It’s for me.
Like he can’t understand how anyone could look at me…and then walk away.
“I’d never do that.” His words are full of devotion, but his hands are all violence. They slam into my chest, shoving me back hard. “I’d never push you away.”
I lose my footing and land on my back, the impact rattling through my bones. He’s on me a second later.
“Finally,” he breathes out with relief. His weight pins me, one knee driving into my thigh, the other braced beside my hip. His hand catches my wrists, slamming them above my head into the dirt. He covers me with his body, and my stomach churns at the hardness between his legs.
“Stay still,” he says, voice low, almost soothing. “You’ll make this worse if you keep struggling.”
I buck under him, twisting, trying to wrench free, but he’s stronger, heavier. My wrists grind into the dirt as I struggle, skin scraping, breath coming fast.
“Get off me,” I snap, forcing anger into it instead of fear.
He laughs, the sound twisted this close. “You don’t give orders. I do.”
His grip tightens, fingers digging into my jaw now, forcing my face toward his.
“Carrson had his chance,” he goes on. “And look what he did with it.”
I growl, struggling, but can’t break free.
“Left you out here.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “Unprotected. Alone.”
“I don’t need your protection,” I bite out. “Or his.”
My hands flex uselessly, trapped by his hands.
The tree is there. I can see it out of the corner of my eye.
So close.
Not yet.
I jerk my knee up, trying to catch him off balance, but he shifts with it, absorbing the movement, pushing me harder into the ground.
“Fuck, yeah,” he says, eyes hooded, amused. “That’s what I like about you, babe. You don’t break easy.”
My pulse hammers.
Think, Becky. Think.
I go limp, and he grins.
“Better,” he murmurs, easing up. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
I turn my head so he can see my lip quiver, like I’m giving in.
Jackson drops his head to nuzzle into my neck, his nose dragging along my skin. “Carrson’s a fool,” he murmurs, “I’ll bond you. Keep you. You’ll learn to want it.”
“You keep bringing him up,” I taunt. “I think you’re more obsessed with him than I am.
” I let out a high, mocking laugh. “It’s pathetic, really.
Even when you’re on top of me, he’s still the only thing in your head, isn’t he?
You don’t even want me, Jackson. You want to taste his leftovers so you can pretend you’re at the same table.
But you aren’t. You’re the dog under it, waiting for the scraps he throws away. ”
That does it. Jackson’s face contorts. His lazy smugness evaporates, and rage takes its place.
“Watch your mouth you little bi—”
I don’t let him finish. I explode upward. My knee drives hard into his side, not a perfect strike, hampered by an awkward angle, but still, it’s enough to throw him off balance. At the same time, I wrench one hand free, sliding it out from under him, scrambling backward across the dirt.
He grabs for me, fingers catching my ankle, but I kick hard, connecting with his wrist.
I’m on my feet before he is.
“Fuck,” he snarls, pushing up to follow me.
I move sideways and head toward the tree. Once I’m close, my hand shoots out, fingers scraping against bark until they close around something solid, cold, and hard.
The dagger.
Jackson realizes a beat too late.
“What—”
I rip the knife free and drop to my knees, twisting as I drive it backward into him. I’ve seen this before, the angle, the timing, the strike. Out here in the woods, all those times we spent together. Carrson’s moves, but now they’re mine.
The blade punches into the meat of Jackson’s lower leg. There’s resistance as it grinds through muscle, skimming bone, then a wet, sickening sound as the tip bursts out the back of his calf. Jackson roars, his leg buckling. He falls, one knee slamming into the dirt and the other extended.
I stagger back, staring at the knife lodged through him, hilt buried against the front of his leg, the blood-slick tip jutting out behind.
Jackson grabs for it, his fingers closing around it, but then he stops. Even he knows better than to pull it free. He lifts his head, eyes blazing.
“You—” he hisses, teeth bared. “You stupid—”
“Don’t,” I snap, cutting him off. I lunge forward and rip the knife from his leg.
Jackson lets out a raw shriek. His hand clamps over the wound, blood pouring through his fingers, dark and steady. He tries to stand, but his calf gives out each time he puts weight on it.
I cross my arms over my chest, my breathing slowing as I take another step back, just outside the reach of his arms.
“You think this changes anything?” he snarls. “I own you, Becky.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I bite back.
Even on his knees with blood dripping down his leg, he smiles. “That’s not how this works, he says. “The bonding. The Order.” His gaze drags over me, deliberately invasive. “You don’t get a choice in this. Women never do. You’re mine.”
The forest goes very, very quiet. Rage surges through me, making everything snap into focus. I take a step forward and brandish the blade.
“Say that again,” I dare.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at the knife.
“Mine,” he repeats his claim. “You just don’t know it yet.”
He’s not trying to scare me. He believes it. Which makes him infinitely more dangerous.
I raise the dagger and jab it forward, making him flinch.
“Listen carefully,” I say. “You picked the wrong girl. Touch me again and—” I lift the dagger slightly, letting him see exactly how steady my hand is.
“I won’t stop at your leg.” I look pointedly at his groin, just to make sure he understands.
“Stay down,” I tell him, walking backward. I want to get out of here before he figures how to stand. When I hit the edge of the clearing, I take in a deep breath. It’s the first real lungful of air I’ve had since I walked into the dining hall. Relief crashes over me.
I did it.
I look back at Jackson, reduced to a dark, hunched shape in the dirt, clutching the leg I stabbed, and a manic laugh bubbles up my throat. I want to dance. I want to scream loud enough that these ancient, indifferent trees know I’m still here. Surviving. Winning.
Another step backward as I plan how I’m going to find Carrson. All the things I want to say to him. I’m about to turn around when I slam into something solid.
Not a tree.
It’s warm. Alive. Breathing.