Chapter 14 #2
I twist out of his grip, breath shaking, and shove him. Hard. He doesn’t budge, but something flickers in his eyes.
I go again. And again. Until my breath comes in short, painful bursts and my hands sting.
“This is what they want. Preston. Samantha,” he growls. “For you to be soft. Breakable. Easy to hurt.”
“I’m not.” I pant, stepping back. “I’m not fragile.”
“Then show me.”
I lunge. I aim for his side, his shoulder, anything solid. I don’t win, but I don’t fail either.
I swing again, harder this time. No aim, no control. Just need.
“You’ve spent your whole life making yourself small,” he says, circling me like a shark tracking its prey. “Smiling when you wanted to scream. Freezing when you should’ve fought.”
“Shut up,” I pant, sweat on my temples, hair in my mouth. “You don’t know me.”
“I know exactly who you are.”
I growl, actually growl, and charge. This time I catch him in the chest with both hands. He stumbles back a step, surprised.
It feels good.
No, it feels powerful.
My blood’s buzzing, hot in my veins. I hit again and again. He dodges most of it, but not all. He’s letting me. Testing me.
“You want to make them pay?” he snarls. “Preston. Sam. Every person who’s ever hurt you?”
“Yes,” I hiss.
“Then hit me like you mean it.”
I scream with rage, grief, everything I’ve swallowed for months, and drive my fist toward his jaw. I miss. I swing again. Hit his shoulder. Harder this time. It jolts up my arm.
“Better,” he mutters. “Still too slow.”
He steps into me, fast. I flinch, then shove back with all my weight. My elbow clips his ribs. His breath hitches.
We’re moving now. Circling. Striking. I’m gasping for air, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
I slap him. Right across the face. Not hard. Not soft. The sound cracks through the air.
His jaw tics. His eyes flash.
And he smiles.
Not sweet. Not kind. Something dangerous. Wicked. Admiring.
“Nice,” he says. “Give me more.”
I shove him again, both hands on his chest. He lets me. Heat radiates through my palms, his body solid and unforgiving.
My breath is ragged. His is steady. Too steady.
“I hate you,” I whisper, even as I step into him again.
“No, you don’t,” he murmurs. “Keep trying, though. Hate is better than fear.”
I punch again. My fist lands against his side. He barely flinches, but he doesn’t look away, not from my eyes, not from my mouth, not from the flush I can feel burning down my neck.
I aim for his jaw next. He catches my wrist, draws me in, and suddenly I’m aware of how close we are, how our panting breath mingles between us, how his chest is against mine, solid, unyielding. It’s dizzying, the feeling of being touched by him.
Carrson must feel it too, that shift, because his fingers wrap tight. Not painful, but firm. Possessive.
His other hand goes to my waist, steadying me.
Our faces are inches apart. He says, “Come on. Fight.”
I twist in his grip. “I’m trying,” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my lips.
“Don’t try. Take.”
I slam my palm into his chest. Hard.
He stumbles back. Not much. But enough.
The look on his face, pride, something darker, more primal, causes a hot feeling to stir low in my stomach.
We move in sync now. Circling. Breathing hard. He lunges. I duck. My elbow connects with his ribs again, and he makes a sound in his throat that’s half grunt, half growl.
He presses in again, grabs me with his hand on the back of my neck, not gentle.
“Don’t just react,” he murmurs, his mouth close enough to brush mine. “Dominate.”
My eyes snap to his.
I hit him in the jaw. Hard.
He doesn’t fall, but he laughs. A low, rough rumble that curls around me.
“There she is. That’s my Tiger.”
Suddenly, his hand is on my shoulder, shoving. My back hits the wall.
His body is in front of me, boxing me in. His chest rises and falls, brushing mine with every breath.
I’m panting. Sweating. Trembling, but not from fear.
Carrson braces his hand against the wall beside my head. Our bodies aren’t quite touching, but close. Too close. Every inch of space between us crackles.
My thoughts scatter. I can feel the heat of him through my clothes. His breath stirs the damp hair clinging to my cheek. My shoulder’s still tingling from where he grabbed it.
I should pull away. Scream at him. Hit him again.
But my body doesn’t want to.
My pulse pounds low in my stomach, hot and deep. My skin feels tight, too tight, like it’s not enough to contain whatever this is.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
“You hate me. You said it earlier,” he says, voice low and husky. “Say it again.”
“I hate you,” I whisper, but it comes out shaky. Unconvincing. Almost…breathless.
Because right now?
I don’t know if I want him far away or close enough to kiss.
He leans in just a fraction. His body doesn’t touch mine, and yet I feel him everywhere.
This time, I don’t flinch from his nearness, but I don’t move toward him either.
Because, for the first time in months, I’m the one in charge and it feels incredible.
Like I’m on fire.
Like I could burn this whole world down.
***
Carrson
We practice for over an hour, mostly Laurel throwing wild, furious punches while I dodge, taunt, and occasionally let one land.
She’s sloppy, unpredictable, way too emotional.
Everything I shouldn’t want in a fighter.
Everything I shouldn’t want, period, but hell if she doesn’t keep coming at me, again and again, like she’s got something to prove.
Even with her inexperience, I see it. That spark. The potential in her. The way she learns fast, how her eyes narrow with a determined kind of focus, how she resets her stance without me telling her. I shouldn’t be impressed.
I also shouldn’t be watching her mouth, her eyes, the way her chest rises when she’s breathless. But I am.
Finally, she collapses onto the floor, flat on her back, her chest heaving like she’s run a marathon. “Can’t,” she pants. “No more.”
I drop down beside her, not too close, leaning against the bed with one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee.
She presses a hand to her chest like she can physically slow her heart. Her gaze slides to mine, wary and curious. “How’d you learn it?” she asks. “To fight like that?”
I’m quiet for a minute, wondering how best to answer her.
I could shut her out. Leave her hanging. The less she knows about me, about The Order, the better. It’ll make it easier for her to walk away when I graduate. Cleaner. Safer. No messy attachments.
On the other hand, we’re stuck together for the next year, and something tells me she won’t make it easy. She’s too curious. Too damn smart. She notices things, picks at loose threads until they unravel and fall apart.
Maybe it’s better if I give her something. Not the whole truth, just enough to quiet that relentless, sharp mind of hers. Enough to keep her from digging deeper and finding things she can’t unsee.
I stay quiet a minute longer, weighing the risks. Then I make my decision.
“I already told you I grew up with tutors,” I tell her. “Mornings were for Latin. World history. Calculus. Anything academic.” I pause, longer this time, the next words heavier in my throat. “Afternoons?” I glance at the floor, jaw tight. “Those were for war.”
Laurel’s eyes are on me, I can feel them, but I don’t look over. I don’t want to see what’s written on her face. Disbelief. Horror. Maybe pity. God help me if it’s pity.
“By the time I could walk, I was being trained. Martial arts. Hand-to-hand combat. Knife work. Marksmanship. Every skill I’d need to survive.” The memories come back sharper than I expect, bone-deep bruises, blood on my palms, my father’s voice barking orders until I forgot how to cry.
“Tracking was my favorite,” I murmur. “Father flew in the best instructor in the world to teach me the art of pursuit. How to move in silence. How to follow without being seen. How to wait.”
She finally speaks. “Seriously?”
I nod once, my jaw tight. I remember exactly what my father told me, word for word, like it’s etched into my mind.
“Your opponent may flee from you,” he’d said. “They should run. Don’t let them get away, son. Track them down. Eliminate the threat. Otherwise, I promise, they will come back to finish what they started. No loose ends, Carrson. No mercy.”
“First, my instructor had me practice with animals,” I tell Laurel. “I liked that, being out in the quiet of the forest, wandering along the path of the deer or the rabbit.” I smile, remembering eight-year-old me, tiptoeing through the woods, thinking I was being so careful. So silent.
My smile fades as I remember how my instructor had berated me afterward, saying how I made a racket and scared the animals away. How he hit me, knocked me to the ground. “Your father expects results. Do better next time.”
“What did you do once you could track the animals?” she asks, pulling me out of that flashback.
I stretch out my other leg and cross my legs at the ankles. “Later, the instructor made tracks himself, and I followed them.”
I don’t tell Laurel about what would happen when I’d find him. How we’d fight, brutal boxing matches that left me broken and bloody.
“Wow,” she says softly, “you must have gotten really good at it.”
“I did,” I answer, knowing I’ll never tell her the rest of the story.
How much later, my teacher had taken me to far-off places, where The Order was involved in wars I didn’t understand.
How we’d track through fields of sand littered with dead bodies dressed in tan camo, rifles still clutched in their hands.
We’d find real people hiding in rocky caves.
They’d shake when they saw us, plead and pray in languages full of harsh consonants.
That’s when I killed for the first time, under careful instruction. “Tighten your grip, Carrson. Pull the trigger slowly. Watch for the recoil.”
A flash of light. A man falling. Blood spilled on the ground.
“Good job. Your father will be so proud.”