Page 54 of Fractured Fates

He squeaks and squeals, alarmed at my sudden appearance. I bury my face against his coarse skin and soon he’s licking my face.

“I hate it here,” I tell him and he snorts as if he’s agreeing with me.

I miss my aunt more than ever.

I wish I’d been switched on enough to ask her more. I wish I’d demanded more answers. I realize now, I don’t even know who those men were that night. I don’t know who any of the men that terrorized us over the years were. I don’t know how many we escaped by luck and skill, and how many men my aunt killed to keep us safe. She kept all that hidden from me, so much on her shoulders. I owe her more than I ever realized. She was stronger than I ever understood.

I don’t know if I can be like her. I thought I could. I thought I was.

But one stupid boy locks me in a locker and I’m almost hyperventilating.

My aunt wouldn’t have let someone do that to her.

She would have fought back. She’d have blasted her way out of that locker and then she’d have blasted the man next.

I sink to the floor, Pip still gathered in my arms, and peer up at the mirror.

My aunt always told me I had my mom’s eyes. A caramel that in some light appears more brown and in others golden. But now as I examine my tear-stained face, I see they are my aunt’s eyes too.

We weren’t alike in any other way. She had long fair hair I always admired that she wore braided around her head. Plus she was tall and willowy. It was no surprise she caught the unwanted attention of men. She was beautiful. Beautiful and strong. Strong and courageous.

I drop my eyes from the mirror and find Pip staring up at me. His snout ripples and I feel like he’s trying to tell me something.

Probably that he’s hungry.

He snorts like he’s dismissing that notion and keeps his gaze locked with mine.

“You’re telling me not to give up, aren’t you?” I say, tickling his ears. “You’re telling me not to be such a baby. You’re telling me to get my act together.”

Pip’s eyelids drift shut as he leans into my touch.

I don’t think he’s actually telling me anything. But I know all that is true anyway.

I am my aunt’s niece. I am the woman she raised. I am no pushover. I’m made of stronger shit than this.

Spencer Moreau can go to hell and I am going back to gym class.

Ten minutes later I stroll right up to him in the gymnasium. He’s crunched over his knees, mid sit-up. He frowns when he sees me.

“You’re late,” Coach calls over to me.

“Yes, but I’m here now and I’m ready to go.”

“Spencer …” Coach says.

Spencer rolls back down. “Can’t someone else babysit her today?”

“No,” Coach replies simply and Spencer takes his merry time lumbering to his feet and strolling to the corner where we’ve been practicing.

Over the next half an hour he doesn’t mention the locker and neither do I. In fact, we don’t speak at all. And I endure another thirty minutes of being tossed to the ground.

“You’re still fucking useless at this,” he snarls at me as we near the end of the class. Which is pretty true despite the one or two times I’ve managed to dodge him and the three successful times I’ve snapped out of his hold.

“And you’re still teaching me fuck all.”

“You’re not even trying!”

“I am,” I snap, digging my nails into my palms and grinding my molars.