Page 142 of Blades Out
I was on my feet before he recovered.
Blood dripped from my split cheek. My jaw throbbed. Vision still slightly blurred. Didn't matter.
I was going to kill him.
Chapter 29
Olivia
Pain exploded across my shoulder as I hit the concrete. My head snapped sideways, temple cracking against the wall hard enough to blur my vision. The world tilted. Spun. Settled into a nauseating throb that pulsed behind my eyes.
I couldn't breathe for a second. Two. Air finally dragged into my lungs in a ragged gasp that tasted like copper and shame.
My jaw ached where his elbow had caught me during the struggle. The inside of my cheek had split against my teeth. Blood pooled warm and metallic on my tongue. I swallowed reflexively and immediately regretted it—the sharp tang of iron sliding down my throat brought memories I'd buried years ago rushing back.
Different floor. Same helplessness. Same fear clawing at my ribs.
Footsteps echoed through the hallway. Heavy. Furious. Boots against concrete. I couldn't tell whose. Couldn't see clearly enough through the stars dancing across my vision and the way the fluorescent lights overhead seemed to pulse and swim.
My ears rang with a high, thin whine that drowned out everything except the thunder of my own heartbeat and the ragged sound of someone breathing hard. Me. Them. Both.
I pressed my palm flat against the cold floor. Grounded myself in the sensation—rough concrete, grit under my fingers, the ache radiating up through my wrist from how I'd landed.
Not again.
The thought crystallized sharp and bright through the fog of pain.
Not this time.
I wouldn't stay down. Wouldn't curl up small and wait for it to stop. Wouldn't let fear paralyze me into the girl I used to be—the one who made herself invisible, who apologized for breathing, who believed she deserved every blow.
My muscles screamed as I shifted weight onto my hands and knees. Blood dripped from my mouth onto the concrete. A small crimson splash that spread slowly across the grey.
The footsteps grew louder. Closer. Purpose in every step.
I braced myself against the wall. Pushed up. My legs shook but held. Vision swam again, but I blinked hard, forced it to clear. Tasted blood and humiliation and something else—something sharp-edged and defiant that felt almost like rage.
I stood. Swaying. Bleeding. Terrified.
But standing.
I pushed myself upright. My legs trembled but locked. Vision swam but held. Blood dripped from my split lip onto the concrete and I didn't wipe it away.
My father stood three feet from Rhys, still talking. Still lying.
"She's always been dramatic. Sensitive. Makes up stories for attention—you know how girls are at that age." His voice carried that familiar smooth charm, the one he used on teachers and social workers and anyone who might believe him. "I never laid a hand on her. Ask her mother. Olivia just—she gets worked up. Emotional."
Rhys said nothing. Statue-still. Carved from stone and fury.
My father spread his hands, reasonable, calm. "I'm trying to reconnect with my daughter. That's all. She's young. Impressionable. Running around with older men—" His eyes cut to Rhys with pointed disapproval. "Someone needs to look out for her best interests."
Something inside me cracked. Not the fragile, frightened crack of breaking down. The sharp, jagged crack of breaking free.
I lunged. My hands hit his chest hard enough to stumble him backward. His expression flickered—shock, then rage—but I didn't stop. My fist connected with his face. Not clean. Not controlled. Desperate and shaking and wild. Knuckles meeting bone with a sick crunch that sent pain shooting up my arm.
He staggered. Swore. Grabbed for me.
I shoved him again.
