Page 4 of Fire Bound

Different pack members try to pull them apart, but they’re both unmoved. Jax’s hands are balled into fists at his sides, but from here I can see them shake in anger. He has no right to be angry. Isabeau finally steps in and pulls her mate back while Pru talks down Jax.

“What the fuck was that? You’re supposed to be sparring!” Jax yells at Ransom. “How is she supposed to learn and improve if she’s injured?”

“Weweresparring, and sheislearning,” Ransom defends himself. “Just now she learned what happens when she gets distracted. She won’t be able to let her guard down even for a second when the real fight comes. I just saved her from making that mistake when it actually counts.”

I’ve heard enough of this.

Trying to pull myself up, I suck in a lungful of air, but immediately regret it when my broken bones scream in protest.

A small hand appears in front of my face, chipped black polish coating the nails. Following the arm up to her face, I find Winslow standing there, her weird two different colored eyes looking down at me. “I didn’t know you could fly.”

“Ha ha,” I comment dryly before taking her offered hand. “You’resofunny.”

She grins while pulling me back to my feet. “I know, I’m thinking about taking this shit on the road, becoming a comedian or something.”

I stagger a bit, unsteady on my feet, but with Winslow’s steadying hands, I find my balance. “You could be like a traveling circus act. Talk to your ghost friends and after you’re done helping them move on, you can tell bad jokes in dive bars.”

Winslow’s gift and sometimes curse is being able to see and communicate with the dead. She’s basically a walking Ouija board.

She loops her arm around my waist and begins to lead me toward the house, leaving the yelling men behind us. “That actually doesn’t sound so bad. Sounds a lot better than preparing to go to war.”

The laugh that bubbles out of me, sounds sad even to my ears.How did my life come to this?For almost two years, my family has been fighting small battles against forces we never thought we’d face and now the final war is coming. I should be preparing for midterms right now, not preparing for battle. With a grim feeling filling my aching chest, I sweep my eyes over the sight in front of me and accidentally lock eyes with a set I try to avoid. My face turns to stone, my guard locking firmly in place, before turning away from him. “Yeah, anything sounds better than that.”

Sixteen Years Ago

The cell feels bigger when she’s gone, and it also feels so cold.

Nothing about the twelve-by-twelve room is warm or welcoming. The walls are bare of any pictures, just a shiny coat of white paint covers them. The floors are just as sterile looking, made of pristine white tiles. She is the reason this room ever has any warmth. She is the reason this room feels safe even when I know it’s not.

Bad things happen here. Bad things are happening to her right now and I can’t do anything about it. They keep saying that I’ll figure out how to control it, that I’ll learn to use the power coursing through my veins, but it hasn’t happened yet. I wish it would, so I could use it on them. That way I could save my mom from the bad things they do to her.

Mom always tells me to be strong, to be brave, but I don’t like when I’m alone in here. I’m afraid they’ll come for me next. Thathe’llcome for me.

He always tells me that I’m special, that he has big plans for me, but I don’t know what yet. I try to be brave, but he scares me. Sometimes when I dream, I see his face. Something about his eyes and the way he looks at me, makes my skin get goose bumps. The look is always so much more frightening in the dreams, because when he smiles, he has fangs and they’re coated in blood. I think it’s my blood, I always wake up before I can find out.

I hate those dreams.

The yellow ball bounces against the far wall before coming back to where I sit on the cold ground. I catch it and throw it again. I don’t have many toys, but Mom says when we get out of here, she’ll get me as many as I want.

She says that a lot, that we’ll get out of here, but I’m not sure I believe her.

I want to believe her.

I want to believe one day Mom will take me to see the ocean like she always says she will. I want to meet the grandparents she always tells me stories about. I want to know if I look like my grandpa as much as she says I do. She tells me every night how thankful she is that I look like my grandpa and not my dad.

I’m thankful too, I don’t want to look like the man who scares us both—the man who gives me nightmares.

Noticing Mom’s bed across the room isn’t made, I drop the ball and pull myself off the floor. Mom hates unmade beds, but they came for her so early this morning that she didn’t have time to make it. They pulled her away before she could tell me goodbye.

She always tells me goodbye.

Tucking the sheets in and fluffing her pillow the way she likes, I step back and smile at my handiwork. She’s been so tired and sad lately, hopefully this will make her happy. I think she’s sad because there’s something wrong with the baby in her belly, just like the last one. I’m not sure what happened to the last baby, but one day they took mom from our room and she came back with a flat tummy. She cried a lot after that.

I don’t like it when she cries.

She tries to hide her tears from me because she doesn’t want to make me sad, but I hear her when I’m supposed to be sleeping. She cries late at night under the blankets of her bed. I wish I could make it better, but I’m too small.

When I’m bigger, I’ll be able to make it better. When I’m bigger, I’ll make sure no one makes Mom cry again.

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