Page 20 of Storm
And there she is. My Storm. My beautiful, fierce Storm.
She's on the screen, her wild auburn curls framing her face, her gray eyes defiant even through the television. She's wearing a pale gold dress that swirls around her legs as she moves across the stage to the announcer. But it's the way she carries herself that makes my breath catch—chin high, shoulders back, every inch of her radiating the same untamed spirit I fell in love with.
I can't tear my eyes away as she grabs the microphone from the announcer, then she's darting across the stage, the mic firm in her hand, like she's daring the world to defy her. Her image blurs for a second as some woman and the announcer start to chase her and wrestle the mic from her hands. She grins on the screen, looking right at me. Her lips are moving, but this goddamn TV has no volume. I don't know what she's saying. I can't hear a single word. Frustration knots in my chest.
I need to know what she's saying.
I need to know everything.
I push my way through the crowd with the memory of Storm on that screen burning behind my eyes. She looks different now—older, harder maybe—but still unmistakably my Storm. I start jogging, my feet pounding the pavement in rhythm with my racing thoughts.
Five yearsearlier
"Hold still, you big baby," Storm says, dabbing the alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the cut above my eye. I hiss through my teeth, jerking away. At fifteen, she is already the toughest person I've ever met, all five-foot-nothing of her.
"It stings like a bitch," I complain, trying to pull away, but she grabs my chin with surprising strength, forcing me to face her.
"And whose fault is that?" She raises an eyebrow. Those storm-gray eyes challenging me. "I told you that guy was too big."
We are sitting on the roof of an abandoned building in the industrial district, our makeshift sanctuary, for when we need to escape our foster home. The setting sun casts her wild auburn curls in copper and gold, making her look like she is on fire.
"I had him. I won, didn't I?" I mutter, wincing again as she continues cleaning the gash.
Storm rolls her eyes. "Two-hundred fifty against one-seventy isn't good odds, even for you, Rook." She reaches for the butterfly bandages she's stolen from the drugstore. "You're lucky he didn't break your pretty face permanently."
I grin despite the pain. "So you think I'm pretty?"
She snorts, but can't hide the flush that creeps up her neck. "I think you're an idiot. Hold still."
Her fingers are surprisingly gentle as she closes the cut with the bandages, her face scrunched in concentration.
"Three hundred," I say, watching her work.
"What?"
"I made three hundred tonight."
Her hands pause, eyes flicking to mine. "Seriously?"
I nod, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "The promoter says if I keep it up, I could make twice that in the bigger fights."
Storm's expression softens. "That's... that's amazing, Rook."
"Two more years," I say, taking her hand in mine. It is small but calloused from the odd jobs she works. "Two more years and we'll have enough to get that apartment. No more foster homes. Just us."
She bites her lower lip, the excitement clear in her eyes before doubt shadows them. "If they don't kill you in that ring."
I squeeze her hand. "That won't happen. I won't fight at The Pit. I promise. Only these local underground clubs."
She finishes bandaging the cut above my eye, then moves to the split in my lip. Her touch is feather-light, concentration etched on her face. I watch her, memorizing every freckle scattered across her nose, the way her hair curls wildly around her face no matter how many times she tries to tame it.
"There," she says finally, satisfaction in her voice. "Good as new. Well, good as a disaster can be new."
I catch her wrist as she starts to pull away. "Thanks, doc."
"Shut up," she laughs, trying to tug free but not really meaning it.
"Make me," I challenge, raising an eyebrow.
