A sob saws inside my throat and I crawl over, disoriented, clawing my approach up onto the windowsill, looking for his good face within the darkness. My love. The person I’ll love till the top of time. Is he right here?

My feverish ideas screech to a halt after I spy Tulip as a substitute.

Down beneath my window, holding a handful of stones.

Exasperated, she alerts at me to open my window.

At first, I’m relieved to see her. She’s part of North. That is the closest I’ve come to seeing him in 5 days. 5 hellish days. And he or she is proof he’s actual.

However then I begin to panic. Oh God, oh God, what if one thing occurred to him? What if my father despatched Curtis Tennison after him, although I complied together with his needs?

“Please no, please no,” I hiccup, throwing open the window. “Tulip…” I handle.

“It’s about time,” she complains, tossing apart her handful of pebbles. “You know the way lengthy I’ve been out right here, ready on your father to go away?”

“I…” I’m dizzy. Delirious. Can’t string a thought collectively. How lengthy since I’ve slept or eaten? “I didn’t even know he was gone,” I say, my voice hole. “I’m…locked in right here.”

A flash of sympathy crosses her younger face. “Dang. You’re virtually in worse form than my brother—and that’s saying one thing.”

That assertion cuts by means of my numbness, setting off alarm bells in my head. “What’s unsuitable with him? What’s unsuitable with North?”

Tulip appears at me like I’m a moron, which is at least I deserve for asking such a silly query. What’s unsuitable with him? He’s with out me. I’m with out him. We’re not speculated to be aside. We’re each struggling. That’s a given. “He’s attempting to get himself killed,” Tulip says in a pained whisper, tears filling her eyes. “Each night time he comes dwelling with extra bruises, extra blood. You need to come cease him earlier than somebody throws the punch that knocks him out eternally. He’s not even attempting to win, Grace. He’s not North anymore.”

Blistering sizzling tears roll down my cheeks, dripping off of my chin.

Helplessness kilos its fists in opposition to the within of my cranium. “I can’t…I can’t. You don’t perceive. Being with him…it’s placing him in peril.”

“He’s in peril now!” Tulip calls again. “He’s getting beat up on function and also you’re locked in a room. It could possibly’t get any worse.”

“Sure, it may,” I rasp.

However whilst I say these three phrases, the urgency is kicking in. I’ve to succeed in North. Now. Earlier than one thing irreversible occurs. My objective is to maintain him alive, isn’t it? That’s the rationale I left him, ripping each of our hearts out within the course of. Nicely his life isn’t simply in peril from my father and Curtis Tennison. It’s in peril from North. And there’s no approach I can sit right here whereas he places himself in hurt’s approach. On function, no much less. I’ve to go to him.

Eleven

North

They discovered somebody who may be capable of take me.

I’m staring throughout the ring on the six-foot-three brick shithouse from Jersey by means of hole eyes, not assessing him as an opponent. Not strategizing about how one can beat him. Nah, I’m merely attempting to infer whether or not or not he might ship a dying blow. It’s getting worse. Day 5 with out my Gracie. I need to be six ft beneath. Life is agony. Each fucking second of it’s extra insufferable than the final. I dig my tooth into my rubber mouthpiece, attempting to slice by means of it. After which I simply spit it out altogether, as a result of who offers a fuck if I lose some tooth or bust my jaw? Do it, I chant in my head, although the opposite fighter can’t hear me. Do it.

I can’t die.

I do know that. I’ve come to phrases with it.

I’ve to remain alive for my sister. She’s the one purpose I’m bothering.

However I can get some blessed reduction from being awake. After not sleeping for 5 days, infinite reminiscences of Grace revolving in my head, I’m keen to take a blow from a sledgehammer. I’m hurting. I’m hurting so dangerous from the dearth of her and the one escape is unconsciousness. Carry it on.

The referee steps into the middle of the ring and the opposite fighter powers ahead, punching himself within the head to psyche himself up. I stare again mutely, the sounds of the Hellmouth tinny and cartoonish in my ears. I’m not even right here. I’m in mattress with Grace on a type of good afternoons, kissing her shoulders, cupping her comfortable knees in my fingers, listening to her secrets and techniques. Her likes and dislikes. Telling her my very own whereas her eyes sparkle up at me.

If this man goes to knock me out, that’s the picture I would like in my head after I go.

Please, for the love of God, let him knock me out.

The battle begins and my fists come up, purely out of muscle reminiscence. Guarding my face, shifting in a circle across the different fighter. Anger wells up inside me, sudden. Anger at myself for being so naïve. Grace Foster? With a man like me? Ceaselessly? What a goddamn moron I’m. “Hit me,” I growl. Then louder, “Come on.”

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