Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Laurel
I’m in the library of Rosewood Hall, packing up my bag since it’s almost five o’clock, when one of the sisters across the room yells out, “Hey! Look, Carrson’s going to battle.”
As one, the sisters surge toward the tall second-story windows overlooking the backyard.
Pages flutter. A chair tips over. I trail behind them, not running, but not exactly walking either.
My curiosity is stirred despite myself. Carrson’s come to bed bloody several times now, from defending his position as leader of the brothers, but I’ve never seen him in action.
I wedge myself into a spot next to the others and peer down at the scene below us. On the wide lawn behind Ashford House, the one where I once saw a dead man, the brothers are once again in a circle with Carrson in the center.
Carrson faces off against another brother, this one much bigger. Sampson, I think is his name. He’s massive, with muscles bunched under his shirt. Tall and broad, while Carrson is smaller and more lithe.
Sampson paces back and forth, his breath puffing out like a bull about to charge, while Carrson looks on, his expression indifferent.
His hands hang loose by his sides. His shoulders are relaxed, unbothered.
He could be waiting in line for coffee instead of getting ready to fight someone who clearly outweighs him by fifty pounds.
I press closer to the window, a strange kind of concern overtaking me.
If I didn’t know Carrson was a good fighter, I would put a bet down on Sampson to win.
No contest. Based purely on physical characteristics, he’s the clear victor, but Carrson has been training me for over a month now.
I know how he can explode from stillness to savagery within seconds.
Still, unease curls in my stomach, so subtle I barely notice it.
“Carrson’s going to get wrecked,” says one of the younger girls, like she read my mind. “Look how big that other guy is.”
“No, he won’t,” replies another. “Carrson never loses.”
“I don’t know,” says a third. “I heard Sampson’s been spoiling for this fight. Training for it in secret. He wants Carrson’s spot.”
On the field, Sampson says something to Carrson. I don’t have to hear to know it’s shit talking, boasting. His grin is nasty and full of heat.
Carrson just heaves a sigh and rolls his eyes, like he’s bored with the whole thing.
That’s all it takes to enrage Sampson, to tip him over the edge. He explodes. Charges Carrson, who dodges, ducking under his fist. Carrson sticks out a casual foot, and Sampson trips, falling into the grass with a puff of dirt.
The other brothers go wild, hollering, stomping, yelling with their fists in the air.
Carrson takes a step back with no change in his expression.
Sampson lumbers to his feet. Even from the window, I can see how he snarls at Carrson, his face red, eyes narrowed, rage written all over his features.
The next movement is a blur. Carrson strikes first this time. He darts left, crouches, and slams his shoulder into Sampson’s side. The bigger boy grunts and stumbles, but he recovers quickly and throws a wild hook that Carrson ducks by a hair.
As Carrson rises, Sampson spins, surprisingly fast given his size. He grabs Carrson, lifts him clean off the ground, and slams him down on his back. Hard.
A collective gasp goes up from the girls around me.
“Shit,” someone mutters.
Carrson doesn’t get up right away.
He rolls onto his stomach, coughs, and spits blood into the grass.
A flicker of something tugs at my chest.
Worry.
I don’t want to care, but watching him struggle to rise to his knees, seeing the way Sampson grins like he’s already won—
My nails dig into the windowsill.
Sampson’s pumped. He storms around the circle of brothers, fists clenched, chest heaving, roaring into their faces like a gladiator feeding off the crowd. He throws his head back and howls at the sky, pure testosterone and triumph, before grabbing the hem of his shirt.
With a savage rip, he tears it down the middle. Fabric shreds like tissue paper under his fists. He flings the remains to the ground, his bare chest gleaming with sweat.
Behind him, Carrson slowly rises to his feet. He’s limping, hunched, favoring his left side. Blood trickles from the corner of his eye.
He turns, eyes tracking the now-shirtless Sampson.
Carrson lifts a single shoulder in a lazy shrug, as if to say, So this is what we’re doing now. With a fluid motion, he grabs the back of his shirt, crosses his arms, and pulls it over his head. The bloodied fabric slips from his hands and flutters to the ground.
The response from the sisters is immediate.
“Damn,” one breathes out next to me, low and reverent.
Farther down the row another moans, actually moans, like she can’t help herself.
They’re not just watching, they’re starving, drooling, and I hate how I get it. Carrson has a lethal, dark allure to him, as he stands there shirtless, covered in sweat and blood with his chest heaving, his shoulders broad and carved with muscle.
He’s beautiful in the most dangerous, dark way.
The kind of beauty that makes you want to taste it even if it might kill you.
Fingers pressed to the glass, knuckles white, our breath caught in our throats, the sisters and I lean closer to watch the spectacle unfold.
Sampson faces Carrson again, his lips pulled back into a ferocious grin. It’s chilling, full of malice.
Carrson ignores Sampson. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, like he’s warming up. Like now the fight really begins. Then, he does something strange.
He smiles.
Not the smirking, arrogant grin I’ve come to expect, but something happier, almost gleeful. A flash of feral joy. Like he’s having the time of his life out there.
Then he moves.
Rapid. Precise.
A low sweep of the leg. Sampson totters. Carrson drives an elbow into his kidney. He stands tall and punches, fist landing in the center of Sampson’s throat. Sampson lurches, flailing, but Carrson’s already moved behind him, hooking an arm around his neck.
It turns brutal.
Sampson throws himself backward, slamming Carrson to the ground and trapping him beneath his massive frame.
He rolls over, keeping Carrson pinned. He raises his fist and drives it straight into Carrson’s face.
Blood splatters, running from Carrson’s nose.
Carrson flings his legs, twists his torso, and they roll, dirt flying, fists flying, bodies colliding with raw, ugly force.
There’s nothing elegant about it now, just fury, sweat, and blood.
It’s terrifying. Impossible to look away from.
The kind of violence that feels ancient. Ritualistic. Like something older than language, older than reason.
“They’re gonna kill each other,” one girl breathes as Sampson slowly rises off Carrson and stands looking down at him with disdain.
“Carrson’s bleeding,” someone else says. “Look. His eye. His nose.”
I take in the damage, the blood and bruising. My heart hammers like I’m the one out there, fighting for my life. I try to tell myself to calm down, that this has nothing to do with me. That Carrson’s cruel. Controlling. A monster in pretty packaging.
It’s a lie.
Because when Sampson lands another hit that sends Carrson’s head rocking to the side, and he lays there on the ground unmoving, I feel something twist in my chest.
Get up, I plead, not realizing I’m holding my breath.
Carrson does. He gets to his knees, then his feet. Slowly, he stands like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Blood drips from his eye, his nose, a split lip. One eye is already swelling shut, but his hands, they’re steady.
He squares his shoulders and adjusts his footing.
He strikes.
It’s crazy fast. A jab to the face, a knee to the gut, then a brutal blow to the jaw that makes Sampson list sideways.
Carrson doesn’t hesitate. He follows closely as Sampson sways, clutching his face, his jaw.
Carrson jumps into the air, catches Sampson by the shoulders, and slams his opponent to the ground.
He’s on top of a dazed Sampson now. Carrson pins him, forearm braced across Sampson’s throat, his muscles shaking with effort.
He pushes that arm into Sampson’s neck, cutting off his airway.
They stay like that for several long, tense seconds until Sampson finally taps out.
It’s over.
The brothers erupt with shouts. Applause. Laughter. So loud we hear it from up high where we watch.
The girls around me are practically swooning.
“I told you he’d win,” one says, fanning herself with a notebook. “He’s so fucking hot when he fights.”
“He’s hot all the time,” another sighs.
A third elbows her and nods toward me, and the girl turns scarlet. “Sorry,” she mumbles.
I almost say, It’s fine. He’s not mine, but the words catch in my throat. My eyes find Carrson again.
He’s bloodied, triumphant. His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths.
He doesn’t look at the brothers. Doesn’t celebrate.
He looks up at me.
Right through the window.
Like he knew I was watching all along.
The worst part?
I don’t look away.