Page 13 of Blackwood

Carlos turns, nostrils flaring, hand still gripping my arm like he owns me. “You think I’m stupid?”

“Oh, I know exactly what you are. I was just feelin’ generous and figured I’d try this thing calledmanners. Just for today.”

Zeke jerks his chin toward me and Dylan. “Seeing as there’s actual kids in the room. Didn’t wanna traumatize them more than your busted-ass face already has.”

Carlos’s grip tightens. “You’ve got a real smart mouth, boy.”

“And there it is. That ugly-ass vein in your five-head. Pops out every time you start fantasizing about hurting one of us,” Zeke says, voice low and steady, like a loaded gun. “You know what I’ve learned about monsters like you?”

He tilts his head, just barely. “You all think you’re untouchable. Invisible. Like nobody notices how your breath catches when Dylan cries. Or how your eyes drag when Bella walks into the room.”

He steps forward slow, like a blade sliding free. “But I see it. Every single tick. Every twitch. Every sick little habit you think you’re hiding.”

Another step. “You reek of weakness dressed up like power.”

His voice drops, sharp enough to cut. “Yeah, you got people in your pocket right now. But one day? They’ll be gone.”

A beat of silence. “And when they are?”

Zeke’s smile is all teeth. “I’m coming for you.”

I choke on a breath I didn’t know I was holding, caught somewhere between terror and awe.

Zeke takes another step forward, slow and unfazed. “Now let go of my sister, asshole. Right the fuck now.”

Carlos’s eyes dart between us. His fury rising.

“You lookin’ to swing, fuckface? Try me. I broke your glass and I’ll break another. Hell, maybe I’ll start with that sad little nose job you wasted money on.”

He grins, “Damn, Carlos. A nose job? At your age? Who you tryna impress, your own reflection, or your little crew of creeps down at the club?”

Zeke tilts his head, eyes dragging over him with unfiltered disgust. “Should’ve skipped the nose and gone for a tummy tuck. You’re gettin’ thick, my guy, and not in a good way.”

Carlos drops my arm like it burned him, nostrils flaring, lips curling back like a dog about to bite, but he doesn’t. He just stands there seething.

Zeke doesn’t look away. Just stands tall, unmoved, defiant. And for a second I think Carlos is going to back down.

“Turn around, boy.”

Zeke obeys. Silent. Shoulders squared. The belt cracks.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

I watch in horror, frozen in place, my own body refusing to move. To speak. To save him.

Crimson bleeds through the thin white cotton of Zeke’s shirt, spreading like ink in water, slow and damning. Each lash leaving a shudder beneath his skin, but he doesn’t make a sound. Hissilence is sharper than any scream. A defiance carved as deep as the wounds.

He takes it.

Because of me.

Because he always does.