“Wha–what are you talking about?”

“Answer the goddamn question.” Jordan lunged. He was in Harper’s face.

Harper cowered, his legs trembling. The front of his khaki shorts darkened. Liquid moved down his leg.

Jordan saw it, his eyes skimming down.

No one mentioned it.

“Did you know Tabatha was whoring herself to get your dad off her dad’s back?”

The guy looked frozen in place, unable to answer.

“DID YOU KNOW?!”

“Yes! Yes.” Harper’s eyes closed. He gritted his teeth, flinching, then he looked at the ground. “Yes. I knew. I knew that’s why she was with me.”

That’s all Jordan needed.

His eyes were still hard, looking dead as he skimmed over us. He wanted to do more than hurt him. His gaze fell to me, then to Cross. It stayed on Cross, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was remembering a time we had to plead with him also. Hurting was fine. Permanently hurting was a whole different ballgame. And beyond that, never go there.

I moved forward, my voice low. “No, Jordan.”

He swung away, but I saw the strickened look there. It mingled with something so cold that it seared me. It brought me back to my room, a night when I was a little girl and heard my drunk father bring home some friends. The same night that had been the last night I slept in her house.

“Don’t, Jordan.”

“He’s not fighting me.” He stepped toward Harper again. “You touched her knowing she didn’t want to touch you?”

The guy nodded, not even fighting anymore. Tears were streaming down his face.

A look of such utter contempt and disgust flared over Jordan’s face, tightening his features until I barely recognized him. He could do it, what I knew a part of him wanted to do right now. He wanted it. He yearned for it. I saw the look, and the old Bren was stirring.

She felt it in the air.

She was wakening.

The firefly was there. I felt its presence. It was lingering on the sidelines, waiting to come into the frame, but no. I shook her off.

We were better.

We had been better.

I thought…

“Just hurt him, Jordan.” I was the only one pleading, and I looked over my shoulder. Both Cross and Zellman had hard expressions on their faces.

Cross met my gaze. “If it were you?”

Zellman’s eyes narrowed. “If it were Sunday?”

Jordan shook his head, stopping, closing his eyes. He let his head fall back, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “It already was Tabatha. And he’ll do it again. Another girl. Another situation. Maybe that time he’ll go farther? What do you want me to do?”

If Jordan started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. That’s what I was fighting against here.

I stepped forward, my foot moving over the dirt. “Not what you want to do.” I couldn’t believe we were back here. Risking the loss of Cross had been enough. Jordan had been with me. He’d been helping me fight to reason with Cross. Now we were here again?

I got that we went dark, but not this dark. There were lines.

There had to be lines. Boundaries.

“We cannot cross this line. Hurt him, but that’s it.”

Jordan turned on me, roaring, “HE WON’T FIGHT BACK!”

Fine. My teeth ground against each other. We’d make him fight back.

I strode forward, my fist ready, and I swung first. I got him on a downward swing, and he stumbled a few feet, shaking his head. I was a girl, but I knew how to hit.

I taunted him, “Fight, fucker. You’re not going to get away from us scar free. Fight.” I kicked out this time, taking out his knee. He crumbled, and then I swung down again. He fell to the ground and I almost spat on him, needing him to get this through his head. “GET UP! You want to touch women you know don’t want to touch you? You get off on that shit? Be a man. Fight back. Take your hits. Right? Is that what you’d say to me? A woman? A girl?” And because he wasn’t standing, I swung again.

And again.

Again.

I kept hitting until he wasn’t moving.

My knuckles were split open, bleeding.

Still, he didn’t fight back.

He wasn’t unconscious. I knew my strength. I knew my limit. I wasn’t crossing that.

He was going to be bruised. He’d be sore. He might have trouble walking for a day or two, but I wasn’t doing the damage he was acting that I was giving him.

I screamed at him, “You don’t deserve to get off with just this! STAND UP!”

An arm came around my stomach and I was lifted off him. I was carried back, and I was crying. I hadn’t known I was until I saw Zellman and Cross staring at me, both with haunted eyes.

It was Jordan.

Jordan pulled me off of him, and I started kicking, struggling to get free. “No! He hurt her. She’s my friend, too, Jordan. Let me go.”

His other arm moved around me, and he held me.

We stood there. Him holding me. Him bent over me, and I felt his breath on my shoulder. I couldn’t stop staring at the guy. He was in the dirt, blood caked all over him.

A guttural scream erupted from me. It was primal, and I tried shoving away from Jordan again.

He only tightened his hold. “Stop.”

“He doesn’t get to get off this easy. A beatdown? That’s it.”

“Please, Bren,” Jordan whispered.

I sagged, hearing his plea.

If I didn’t stop, he’d start. I had to stop. I had to stop for him.

“We have to go. It’s done.” That was Cross, but he was the leader speaking now. “Get her in the truck.”

Jordan carried me over. Zellman hopped up and Jordan lifted me to him. I could’ve climbed up myself, but there was something about my crew doing this for me. Handling me. They needed to do this, and a part of me needed to let them.

I glanced back as Jordan was climbing up, coming behind us.

Cross was bent over Harper. He was talking to him. A second later, he pulled his phone out, punching some numbers. Then the phone was back in his pocket, and he was coming for the truck. His eyes held mine for a brief moment before he got behind the wheel.

Cross drove us back as Zellman and Jordan huddled on both sides of me.

My hands were still bleeding, but no one moved to cover them.

That felt fitting, for some reason.

Just let me bleed.

BREN

I went dark last night.

Correction.

I went dark five hours ago. Same day.

I was lying in bed, not wanting to look at the time, and I could feel her. The old me. The firefly was there, too, on the sidelines, waiting to emerge to keep her company again.

I drew in a shuddering breath, feeling all that old numbness, and emptiness, and anger. So much anger. The old me hadn’t been healthy. She hadn’t been right.

I was not her. I could not go back to being her.

“Bren.” Cross moved in bed, sitting up. He moved over, leaning over me.

Take note, he did not ask me what was wrong. He did not ask me what I was thinking about. He did not ask any of those questions, because he knew and his soft sigh on my name told me so.

I closed my eyes.

I would not cry either.

They were damming up, ready to spill, but no. I would not let myself go there either.

“Bren.” Cross moved into me, his hand coming to my stomach. He held it there, waiting.

I drew in another gaping breath.

The ugly shit in me, the turmoil, it was back inside and breaking through all the barriers I’d erected.

I let her in when I moved on Harper.

“Cross,” I choked out.

“Oh, Bren.”

That was enough. I could see him watching me. His eyes held mine.

He was looking. He was judging. He was trying to read what I needed, and then his gaze darkened. Those eyes, they were smoldering, and my heart sped up in response. My body warmed. Trails of pleasure coursed through me, coating my insides.

It was working. Just the look, the promise, and he was pushing her back out.

The cold, the numbness, it was all fading. I was warming. I was feeling, and then I was throbbing.

“Babe,” he whispered, lying over me gently.

Everything about him was tender, careful.

His body was over mine, on mine, and he skimmed a hand up my side, under my shirt. He pushed it up, his hand closing over my breast at the same time his lips found mine.

A gentle kiss. Soft. Grazing.

He lit the fire. A soft nip. He came back. A longer graze.

Again.

And again.

Longer. Harder.

The fire was building, thawing me out, then inflaming me.

I gasped, and it felt as if I were gasping alive, and I sought him out. I needed him, needed more. Our mouths fused together. Harder. Demanding.

I moved my legs, wrapped them around his waist, and he groaned, skimming his hand down my side, wrapping around one of my legs. He smoothed it back up, feeling me, pushing my sleeping shorts up. He moved them aside, and I felt him touching me there.

I needed him there.

I was aching now. Dripping.

He pushed in a finger, and my entire body arched up, clamping around him. My arms around his shoulders, his back. My legs moved higher around his waist, my ankles locking behind his back.

The kisses were more desperate. Rough.

My entire body was frenzied. I just needed more and more and more.

This wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Touching him, feeling his weight on mine, his finger (now two) inside of me, thrusting, going deep. I wanted it harder, punishing even.