6. Talon

6

TALON

FOURTEEN YEARS OLD

One year later…

I watch Lena from across the yard as she hangs laundry, her dark hair catching the sunlight. A year has passed, yet she’s still here, still standing. Most foster kids break within months under the Wilsons’ abuse, but not her.

My ribs ache from last night’s beating—another one I took in her place when Mr. Wilson caught her reading past curfew. The pain is familiar now, almost comforting. I’ve lost count of how often I’ve stepped between them, drawing his rage onto myself instead.

“You dropped some socks.” Mrs. Wilson’s saccharine voice drifts through the open window. Lena’s shoulders tense, but she doesn’t flinch like she used to. She’s learned to weather the constant criticism.

I shift in my hiding spot behind the oak tree, ready to intervene if needed. This protective instinct confuses me. Jamie surprises me by grabbing the socks and taking them to Lena. He’s one year younger than me and has always been a complete asshole. But, he seems to have a slight soft spot for Lena, even if he acts the part of bully when Mr. Wilson is around. And I don’t understand why I hate seeing him talk to her as she gives him a shy but sweet smile.

I’ve never cared about anyone before—caring gets you hurt. Yet whenever Mr. Wilson raises his hand to her, my body moves all by itself.

The screen door creaks. Mr. Wilson stumbles out, reeking of whiskey even at this hour. My muscles coil as he approaches Lena. But she handles him perfectly—eyes down, voice soft, movements quick and efficient. She’s learned the dance of survival.

Still, I stay close. Because even though she’s stronger now, even though she’s mastered the art of becoming invisible when needed, I can’t risk it. Can’t let them break her like they broke the others.

Perhaps it’s because she still has light in her eyes despite everything. Or because she’s the only one who’s ever tried to reach past my walls. Or maybe I’m tired of watching things get destroyed in this hellhole.

Whatever the reason, I’ll keep taking the hits. Keep standing between her and them. It’s become as natural as breathing, this role of protector. Even if I don’t understand why.

I trail behind Lena as she heads inside, keeping my footsteps silent. She pauses in the kitchen, reaching for a glass of water. Her small hand trembles slightly—aftereffects of dealing with Mr. Wilson’s drunken presence.

“You handled that well.” My voice makes her jump, water splashing over the rim of her glass.

She turns, those hazel eyes widening. “I learned from watching you.”

The words hit something raw inside me. I lean against the doorframe, maintaining distance as I want to move closer. “Good. Keep learning. Keep surviving.”

“Why do you help me?” She sets the glass down, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “You take beatings for me. But you never talk to me.”

“Talking gets people hurt.”

“Not talking hurts, too.” Her chin lifts, defiant despite her fear. It’s that spark that draws me, that refuses to die no matter what the Wilsons do.

I cross the kitchen, stopping beside her. She doesn’t back away anymore, not like she used to. “Being alone is safer.”

“Is it?” She looks up at me. “You’re alone. Are you safe?”

The question catches me off guard. This ten-year-old girl sees too much and understands too deeply. It’s dangerous. She’s dangerous.

“Safer than caring about someone who’ll end up broken or dead.” I grab her glass, dumping the remaining water in the sink. “Stop trying to understand me, Lena. Stop trying to be my friend.”

“I won’t.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”

“You should be scared of me.” I turn back, towering over her small frame. “I’m not good, Lena.” I step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “There’s nothing but darkness inside me. My parents made sure of that before I even got here.”

Her small frame refuses to retreat despite my looming presence. The stubborn light in her eyes makes my jaw clench. She needs to understand—she needs to stay away.

“The things I’ve done, the things I’m capable of...” I grip the counter, knuckles white. “You think you know darkness because of the Wilsons? They’re nothing. I’ve seen real monsters. Been shaped by them. Become one.”

“You protect me,” she whispers.

“Because I’m possessive. Obsessive. It’s not kindness driving me—it’s something darker.” The truth spills out, raw and ugly. “When I hurt people, I enjoy it. When I take those beatings meant for you? Part of me loves the pain and craves it. That’s not normal. That’s not good.”

“But—”

“No.” I slam my hand on the counter, making her jump. “Stop trying to find light where there isn’t any. I’m telling you what I am. A creature full of violence and rage. The only difference between me and them is that I’ve chosen you as mine to protect. That doesn’t make me better. It makes me worse.”

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, but she doesn’t run. Still, she looks at me like I’m worth saving.

“You should fear me more than them,” I growl. “Because at least they’re honest about their cruelty. I hide mine behind protection. But it’s still there, Lena. Always there. Growing stronger every day.”

The innocence in her eyes cuts deeper than any of Mr. Wilson’s blows. She reaches for my hand, her small fingers barely covering my palm.

“We could help each other,” Lena says, her voice carrying that childish hope I lost years ago. “Like... like when you share cookies at lunch. The hurt gets smaller when you share it.”

My chest constricts. Such simple logic. Such dangerous thinking.

“You can’t fix me, Lena.” I pull my hand away. “I’m not some broken toy that needs putting back together. I was never whole to begin with.”

“But—” She wrings her hands, searching for words too big for her ten-year-old vocabulary. “But you’re nice to me. Even when you pretend not to be. And I could be nice back.”

The urge to touch her face, to memorize every detail of her innocent expression, surges through me. That’s exactly why I need to stay away. These possessive thoughts aren’t normal—especially not toward a child. I’m fourteen, old enough to recognize the darkness of my obsession.

“Stop.” I back away, forcing steel into my voice. “I’m not nice. I’m not your friend. And if you’re smart, you’ll keep your distance.”

“But—”

“No.” I cut her off, hating how my harsh tone makes her flinch. “This ends now. We’re not having cookies together. We’re not sharing our pain. We’re not anything.”

Tears well in her eyes, but I force myself to turn away. Every protective instinct screams at me to stay, to comfort her. But that’s the problem. My version of protection is twisted, warped by years of abuse and neglect. She deserves better than my corrupted form of care.

I stride away. Behind me, I hear her quiet sniffle, and my fists clench. But I keep walking because the alternative—giving in to this obsessive need to possess and protect her—would destroy us both.