His face twisted up in a snarl, and I saw the fist forming.
The punch was coming. I threw my arms up to block just as I heard: “GET OFF HER!”
And then he was gone.
As easily as he’d hauled me back in place, his entire body was pulled from the truck.
Channing slammed Richter to the ground, and then he was punching him. Blood sprayed everywhere, and my stomach churned.
Adrenaline buzzed in my ears. But underneath the violence, the blood, the fear for my life, there was a sadness too.
I sat up in Channing’s truck, his gun still in my hand, and I surveyed everything.
Some of Richter’s men had stayed to fight, and some hadn’t—they were simply gone. It wasn’t just Channing’s crew that had come. I recognized some of the adults from the Ryerson crew. I saw two of Bren’s crew, and my stomach dropped.
They were babies. Jordan and Zellman. They weren’t supposed to be a part of this world, even though I knew they were. They had their own fights, but this was ours. My fight. Channing’s fight. Not theirs.
I wanted to cry. I should’ve cried. I should’ve been scared, furious, whatever was normal in these situations. Maybe I should’ve been in shock, but I was none of that.
I just was.
I looked back down at the gun, but it wasn’t the weapon that caught my attention. It was my hand—there was no shake or tremor. I was steady. In fact, I raised the gun and studied my hand.
I was rock fucking solid.
And that scared me.
CHANNING
Moose hauled me away from trying to kick Richter’s head off of his body, and as he did, I glimpsed Heather.
The sight stopped me in my tracks. I could smell the blood and dirt and sweat in the air. There was a storm going on around us, but in the middle of it, she sat still.
There was blood all over her—in her hair, on her face. Her arms were bleeding. Blood gushed from a cut on her chest. But her eyes weren’t wild, though they should’ve been. They were calm. She clutched my gun in one hand and her shirt in the other, and her eyes—I’d never get that image out of my head.
They were wide and unblinking, but resigned.
Everything left me. The need to hurt, defend, protect, maim—all of that was gone, and instead, my stomach plummeted to my feet.
I shivered, but it wasn’t cold. It was a goddamn blistering day. I shook off Moose and went to her. Richter had been pulled away, and I knew his men—the ones still able to move—were taking their injured with them so I could step clear to the opened door.
“Heather.” My voice cracked. It was shaking. Fuck. My hand too.
I formed a fist, then smoothed it out. It was still trembling.
I’d done this to her.
No matter what anyone would say—I did this to her.
I’d brought her this violence and darkness. I had put it in her, and I couldn’t take it back. The damage was done.
I’d damaged her.
“Heather,” I whispered and held my hand out.
Reaching for her felt like it signified something more. Forgiveness? No. Not that. I didn’t deserve it, so maybe something else. Acceptance? Fuck. Did I even want that?
You can walk away. There’s time. You can still save her.
Shit. I almost pulled my hand away.
That’s what I’d done so many times; it’s why I kept walking away. It was to save her—from myself.
We’d won this round of the war, but there’d be another. I was waiting for Richter to win a battle, and when he did, who knew how catastrophic it would be. No matter what, the war would continue, and Heather was smack in the middle—literally, at this moment.
I couldn’t walk away from her, not yet.
You will.
Yes. Whoever that voice was in my head—my conscience?—I knew he was right. Heather kept thinking it was her choice to accept me and be with me, or not. But it wasn’t that simple. We were intertwined. There was no me without her. No her without me, so to do what I needed to do, I was going to rip us both apart.
So help me.
“Heather.” I unfolded my palm, stretching my hand toward her, and without a second’s hesitation, she grabbed it. It was a strong hold. Sturdy. It ripped me down the middle, but I pulled, lifting her out of the truck.
Her legs came around me. My arms enveloped her, and as she nestled up against my chest, I carried her.
I would’ve carried her the rest of my life.
35
Heather
Freshman year
Channing was sitting on the top of my truck when I left school, his feet dangling over the front. He might have been lounging there, looking all cool and shit, but I was still pissed. I couldn’t deny how damn good he looked, though, so I schooled myself. I couldn’t let him get away with the crap he’d pulled. No way. Or the way he’d talked to me.
I had a lecture already prepped in my head. I’d had the rest of detention to perfect it, but when I got to him, he dropped to his feet.
“I’m sorry,” he announced.
Seriously. Those two words.
I had my hand up, my pointer finger ready to go, but his apology thwarted my plans. I shook a fist at him instead. “Not cool, Chan. Not cool at all.”
He sighed, hanging his head. “I know. I know.” He slid his hands through his hair, making the ends stick out, and even that looked good on him. He’d changed from the T-shirt he’d had on earlier to a shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Bodybuilders sometimes wore them in the gym, but on Channing’s lean frame, it showed more of his recent tattoos.
I saw claws wrapping around his torso, disappearing under his shirt. “When’d you get those?”
“Huh?”
“Those.” I touched them, moving the shirt over to show the rest of it. Half the claw mark tattoos were on his chest.
“Oh.” He shifted under my touch—gently, but still moving my hand away from him. “Just a while ago, with Moose.”
I tried not to feel slapped by that move, but I failed. That hurt.
Channing didn’t talk about how his mom had died. He’d been quiet for the few months they knew beforehand, and he’d kept quiet for six months after. He’d crawl in my room at night and just lie with me, holding my hand. But not talking.
I was never sure what to say, if I should press him or not. I was starting to think maybe I should’ve.
All the fighting lately, it was connected.
“How’s Bren doing?”
He never talked about his sister either.
He shrugged, a stark look in his eyes. “She’s little. She’ll bounce back.”
I fought against rolling my eyes. Couples were supposed to talk, right? Well, we were failing at that.
“And your dad? Is he still being an asshole?”
A grin tugged at his mouth, and he snorted. “Maybe that’s where I get it, right?”
“So he is? Still being an asshole?”
“The fucker could die for all I care.”
I wasn’t even going to ask about his half-brother. I knew the guy’s mom hated everything Monroe.
“Channing,” I sighed, but a truck wheeled in behind us. Two upperclassmen waved, hollering, “Monroe! We’re about to go fuck some shit up over in Fallen Crest. You in?”
“Hell yes.”
I tried not to see how relieved he looked as he started for the truck.
Catching my eye, he stopped and kissed my neck quickly, whispering, “I love you. I’m sorry.”
Then he was gone, vaulting into the back of the truck.