Page 7 of Kill, Sleep, Repeat: Vol II

Sophie looks up at me, her expression hardening. “He wasn’t my father. You lied about that too.”

“He was your father in every way that mattered.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” I say, leaning forward. “But Soph—next time, there won’t be anyone to step in.”

“So you’ve said.”

She turns away, staring out the window.The silence stretches between us. I know she’s angry, and I know she’ll hold onto that anger like armor.

Which is good. She’ll need it.

5

CHARLOTTE

The knife whistles past my face, embedding itself in the wooden crate behind me.

“Missed.” I don’t bother softening the word.

Sophie lowers her arm, lips pressing into a hard line. Sweat drips down the side of her face, but she doesn’t wipe it away.

“I’m trying.”

“Trying doesn’t count.” I walk over, yank the knife free, and toss it back. It clatters against her palm before she tightens her grip. “Again. Aim this time.”

She throws it, but she looks at me like she’d rather be anywhere else, and I don’t blame her. The warehouse reeks of mildew and metal, the kind of place where you can’t help but feel like you're being watched, even when no one's around. It’s the perfect place for training. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, standing across from Sophie, knife in hand.

The city noise is muted here, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been tracking someone for the last three days. He’s been tailing us, never too close, always hanging just far enough back to look like an accident. He’s not an accident. I’ve seen him. Sophie hasn’t. Not yet.

“Pick it up,” I say, watching her eyes flicker to the knife on the ground.

She doesn’t move immediately. Instead, she stares at it, her jaw tight, her mind running through whatever excuse she’s come up with. That’s fine. I’ve got time.

“Throw it,” I add. “And aim.”

Her fingers close around the handle, slow and deliberate. The knife leaves her hand, sails through the air, and hits the crate with a dull thud. Barely a scrape. It’s not enough.

“Missed.”

Her face tenses, as though I don’t understand the situation. But I do. All too well. She’s thinking about that boy she met at orientation. The one who keeps texting her, the one she keeps texting back when she thinks I’m not paying attention.

I’ve tried to explain it to her, in a way she still hasn’t fully grasped: Men are wonderful, but you have to be careful. The wrong kind of man—and sometimes even the right one—will find a way to make your world very, very small. I suppose time will prove that, but waiting for it to do so? That’s dangerous.

“I didn’t ask for a try,” I continue, walking her way. “I asked for a hit.”

Her knuckles are white around the handle of the knife, her eyes burning with frustration, but she holds herself back, still trying to figure out how far she can push without me pushing back harder.

“Throw it again,” I say.

This time, she throws it harder, faster. The blade grazes the edge of the crate, barely grazing the target. It’s closer. But not close enough.

“Better,” I tell her. "But if that were a throat, you’d be dead.”

I can feel the frustration radiating off her, like she’s ready to explode. She wants to yell, to quit—but she doesn’t. Not yet. That will come in time. Especially when I explain to her that the new “friendship” she’s got going has to stop. I’ve seen theway she looks when a new text comes in, and it’s not good. Trouble rarely comes with a warning, except this kind. It’s clear as day to anyone paying the least bit of attention.

“Do you think it’s enough?” I ask, stepping closer. “Because this isn’t a game. I didn’t teach you this for fun, Sophie. You’re not going to get a second chance next time.”

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