Page 7 of Grave Intentions

I’m frozen in shock, while Mr. Wilson repeatedly hits Talon. It feels like forever, and even though it’s horrible, Talon just takes it. He’s really tough, but it hurts me to see him getting hurt for me.

Finally, Mr. Wilson steps back, all huffy like he’s just run a race. “Let that be a lesson to both of you,” he spits, wiping his bloody knuckles. “Now get back to work.”

He stomps away, leaving Talon and me alone in the hallway. I rush over to Talon, my hands hovering over his bruised face.

“Why did you do that?” I whisper, my voice shaky. “I thought you hated me. You told me to toughen up but jumped in to protect me twice. I don’t get it.”

Talon looks at me, and I see something I don’t understand in his eyes. “I don’t hate you, Lena,” he says, wincing as he tries to sit up. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

I watch him walk away, his shoulders bent and fists clenched tight. I want to thank him for standing up for me, but the words get stuck in my throat. One minute, he’s all cold and pushing me away, and the next, he’s taking a beating for me. It’s confusing.

I get to my feet, wincing because my cheek still hurts where Mr. Wilson slapped me. I remember that short moment when I thought he understood how I felt. Maybe Talon isn’t just mean—maybe he’s alone, too.

A tiny spark of hope fills my heart. Could he be my friend, after all? We could help each other in this scary new world. It won’t be easy—Talon seems to want to keep me away, and I’m still so sad about my parents—but having someone who gets what I’m going through makes me feel a little better.

6

TALON

FOURTEEN YEARS OLD

One year later…

Iwatch Lena from across the yard as she hangs laundry, her dark hair catching the sunlight. A year has passed, yet she’s still here, still standing. Most foster kids break within months under the Wilsons’ abuse, but not her.

My ribs ache from last night’s beating—another one I took in her place when Mr. Wilson caught her reading past curfew. The pain is familiar now, almost comforting. I’ve lost count of how often I’ve stepped between them, drawing his rage onto myself instead.

“You dropped some socks.” Mrs. Wilson’s saccharine voice drifts through the open window. Lena’s shoulders tense, but she doesn’t flinch like she used to. She’s learned to weather the constant criticism.

I shift in my hiding spot behind the oak tree, ready to intervene if needed. This protective instinct confuses me. Jamie surprises me by grabbing the socks and taking them to Lena.He’s one year younger than me and has always been a complete asshole. But, he seems to have a slight soft spot for Lena, even if he acts the part of bully when Mr. Wilson is around. And I don’t understand why I hate seeing him talk to her as she gives him a shy but sweet smile.

I’ve never cared about anyone before—caring gets you hurt. Yet whenever Mr. Wilson raises his hand to her, my body moves all by itself.

The screen door creaks. Mr. Wilson stumbles out, reeking of whiskey even at this hour. My muscles coil as he approaches Lena. But she handles him perfectly—eyes down, voice soft, movements quick and efficient. She’s learned the dance of survival.

Still, I stay close. Because even though she’s stronger now, even though she’s mastered the art of becoming invisible when needed, I can’t risk it. Can’t let them break her like they broke the others.

Perhaps it’s because she still has light in her eyes despite everything. Or because she’s the only one who’s ever tried to reach past my walls. Or maybe I’m tired of watching things get destroyed in this hellhole.

Whatever the reason, I’ll keep taking the hits. Keep standing between her and them. It’s become as natural as breathing, this role of protector. Even if I don’t understand why.

I trail behind Lena as she heads inside, keeping my footsteps silent. She pauses in the kitchen, reaching for a glass of water. Her small hand trembles slightly—aftereffects of dealing with Mr. Wilson’s drunken presence.

“You handled that well.” My voice makes her jump, water splashing over the rim of her glass.

She turns, those hazel eyes widening. “I learned from watching you.”

The words hit something raw inside me. I lean against the doorframe, maintaining distance as I want to move closer. “Good. Keep learning. Keep surviving.”

“Why do you help me?” She sets the glass down, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “You take beatings for me. But you never talk to me.”

“Talking gets people hurt.”

“Not talking hurts, too.” Her chin lifts, defiant despite her fear. It’s that spark that draws me, that refuses to die no matter what the Wilsons do.

I cross the kitchen, stopping beside her. She doesn’t back away anymore, not like she used to. “Being alone is safer.”

“Is it?” She looks up at me. “You’re alone. Are you safe?”

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