BECKETT
My breath came out heavy as I struggled to pin Jack’s arms down. I’d managed to get on top of him, but my body felt fatigued already, after just a few minutes of fighting.
Jack used my own body weight as leverage against me. He grabbed my shirt and jerked to the left, shoving his hips upward. We rolled, heading right toward a tree.
Great.
My cheek smashed into a tree root, and my forehead hit, too. Skin above my eyebrow split open. Blood dripped into my eyes.
Jack held back, though. I knew it. And that knowledge sent me over the edge.
I grabbed for him again, to wrap him up, but Jack freed himself from my grip and pushed against my chest to stand up.
Oh no, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t leaving. Not now.
I shoved myself up from the ground, my chest heaving for air. “Come on, fight me! Fight me like I know you can!”
Jack waved me away and took a step toward the building. “Forget it.”
“Fight me! Come on, just do it, knock me out!” I dove toward him, but he stiff armed me with his left hand. I lunged again, and this time as he stuck his arm out, I grabbed his hand and twisted as hard as I could.
The bones in Jack’s left pinky and ring finger snapped. The sound satisfied me, made up for the last twenty hours of crap from him. The injury didn’t matter—Jack’s fingers would heal by the end of day. It was the infliction of pain that mattered.
Jack cursed. His eyes lit up.
I’d sent him over the edge.
Good. It’s what I wanted.
Revenge for his pain was instinctual, automatic. I knew it would be. He dove into me, aiming for my belly. He plowed me backward toward the tree, and we hit it full force. The air left my lungs in a single gush, and my head flew back against the trunk.
The world went dark.