Page 14 of Blackwood

Carlos tosses the belt aside like this was nothing. Like Zeke’s skin isn’t split and stinging. He straightens his shirt and turns to leave. He pauses near the edge of the kitchen, one hand resting on the back of a high-backed bar stool.

“You’re about to age out soon boy,” he sneers, cracking his knuckles like a promise. “Less than a year by my count.”

He steps back toward us, slow and smug, that sick gleam in his eyes.

“I always wondered why none of the deals for you ever stuck. Every time I had a buyer, it fell through. Like some sort of bad luck followed you around like a fucking curse.”

He snorts, half-amused, half-frustrated. “All worked out in the end I guess. Now I get to watch you leave. Ezekiel Malik Carter, a little scared boy with nowhere to go. How tragic.”

His gaze slithers past Zeke and lands on me, curling hot and filthy at the edges. “You’ll leave her here. And the best part?”

His smile sharpens into something out of a horror movie. “You’ll spend every fucking day for the rest of your miserable excuse of a life wondering where I took her. What I did to her. Who I sold her to. Or even better, if I decided to keep her for myself.”

His voice drops to a whisper. Cruel and close. “And you won’t be here to stop it.”

Then he turns and walks off, boots tapping across the marble. No slamming doors. No yelling. Just the echo of him fading down the hall.

Zeke doesn’t move. His fists are so tight I think his bones might break through his skin. His back rises and falls like every breath cost him.

But when he finally turns, it isn’t rage on his face. It is something worse.

Grief.

Like he’d failed me. Like I was the only one bleeding and he couldn’t stop it.

His eyes drop to my hand, still shaking from where the glass had sliced across the base of my palm. Blood dripping down my wrist, painting lines over skin that already feels bruised.

“Shit, Bells,” he breathes, voice cracking just a little. “Here. Sit.”

He pulls out a bar stool, and I sink onto it without thinking.

“I’m fine,” I whisper even though the room feels like it’s tilting.

He doesn’t argue. He rips a thread of fabric from his shirt and takes my hand, wraps it in the fabric, and secures it tight with a knot.

“You’re not fine,” he says, voice low. “But you will be.”

“I broke it,” I choke out, tears crashing through like a wave I can’t stop. “I broke it and you—”

“Shhh.” His hands gather mine, careful not to brush the raw parts. Blood from both of us staining the space between. “You didn’t deserve that, Bells. Not today. Not ever.”

His voice gets softer. “And hey, you’ve got that recital next weekend, remember? No way I’m lettin’ you walk in with belt marks. You’re gonna show up like a star. Not like you crawled out of a damn war zone.”

“But you—”

“Look at me.”

I do.

“I’ve been through worse. You don’t gotta carry this, Bells. Not by yourself.”

I sob harder as he pulls me into his arms. It’s not just a hug, it is shelter. I cling to my big brother like a lifeline, like if I let go, I’ll drown in everything I can’t say.

The hug is cut off by soft footsteps. “Zeke, Bella?”

Zeke lifts his head. “Come here, dude.”

Dylan grabs one of the elegant kitchen stools and drags it next to mine, the wooden legs scraping softly across the icy marble.