Page 33 of Celestial Combat

When the door clicked shut behind her, I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

The quiet didn’t last.

Through the thin walls, I heard her voice – muted but clear enough to make my stomach drop.

“She’s still not coming to terms with it,” The therapist said. “She refuses to acknowledge her mistakes. Her addictions.”

A hollow sort of laughter left me, bitter and sharp.

“So what are you saying?” My father this time, his voice controlled but sharp.

“That she needs help accepting responsibility.”

I squeezed my eyes shut as the lump in my throat thickened.

They thought I was in denial. That I was just another spoiled girl who partied too hard and ended up in the hospital because of it.

That I did this to myself.

I wasn’t sure which was worse – how wrong they were or the fact that no one would believe me.

A single tear slipped down my cheek.

Then another.

I bit my lip, hard enough to taste blood.

Weakness. That’s what this was. Weakness was crying alone in a hospital bed. Weakness was letting them think they were right. Weakness was lettinghimwin.

No.

I would never be weak again.

I sat up slowly, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand. My ribs protested the movement, but I ignored the pain. I ignored the stinging in my cheek, the ache in my head.

I didn’t remember his face, only the snake tattoo on his neck. But I would find him.

And when I did?

I would kill him myself.

Chapter 12

ONE MONTH LATER

19 years old

Midtown, New York City

MOST OF THE BRUISES HAD faded into faint yellow-green ghosts on my skin, but some still lingered – stubborn reminders that my body remembered even when my mind tried to forget. The cut on my cheekbone had mostly healed, though there was still a slight pinkish tint where the stitches had been. My busted lip? That was trickier to hide. No matter how much concealer I layered over it, I could still feel the faint ache whenever I pressed my lips together.

I wasn’t the same, but I was better.

Or at least, I was trying to be.

I spent the last few weeks at my parents’ mansion in Queens, trapped in a house too big and too quiet, forced to endure my mother’s worried looks and my father’s tense silences. I had spent entire days watching old karate movies.

I used to love karate. I had been damn good at it, too – until high school, when I let that take over my priorities.Now, I wanted it back. Not just for fun, but because I needed to feel strong again.

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