Chapter Twenty-One

The next day at school, Elliott's desk is empty.

I need to talk to him. The problem is that even after spending all of last night replaying our conversation, I still don't know what to say. He quit the one thing he's good at, the hobby that gave him a purpose, because he thought he was protecting me. But in doing that, he ruined everything.

I don't know if I'm ready to forgive him for the lines he crossed in the process.

"Rose?"

Maddy Davis is standing over me. She reeks of rose-scented perfume and hairspray. The usual scowl on her face is gone. Instead, she looks . . . worried. She taps on my desk.

"What?" I ask, confused. She squats, so we're on the same level.

"Have you heard from him?"

Great. She's probably going to tell everyone Elliott's suspension was somehow my fault.

"He's suspended, but he'll be back next week."

She exhales, relieved. Maddy turns away, but as she does, she mumbles something that catches my attention.

"He thought I was you."

I lean in. "What?"

"When he was kissing me. He kept muttering shit about curly hair and princesses—whatever that means. He said your name. I thought you should know."

I gulp. "Thanks."

Maddy shrugs then disappears back to her desk. Maybe she's not as bad as I thought.

After school, I go straight to Midtown for practice, half hoping that Elliott will show up. He doesn't. Andre greets me at the bench. He inspects my outfit, a mix of athletic clothes and school clothes, then chuckles.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten about the competition next week."

"Haven't forgotten," I say, truthfully. "Just preoccupied. Let's train."

I channel all my pent-up anger and confusion into Andre's routine. I keep glancing over my shoulder, desperate to see that familiar grin of approval on Elliott's face as he watches me, but all I'm greeted with is a blank wall.

"Have you talked to him?" I ask Andre after practice ends.

"Not since yesterday. His dad drove him home after he won the match."

I'm glad he won, but I'm sure it did nothing to help his case for quitting. The stronger Elliott's talent, the less likely Damon will be to accept that he wants to stop.

"He mentioned an underground fight next week," I say, after everyone else has cleared the building. "Is that connected to the one I'm competing in?"

Andre shakes his head. "No. Different nights, different places. And before you worry, I made Elliott promise not to compete. They're flying in a guy from the Northeast with a . . . reputation."

I swallow nervously. "He's not competing either way. He told Damon that he's done with The Ring."

Andre raises his brows. "News to me. When did he tell him?"

"A few days ago. He said yesterday was his last fight."

Andre is Elliott's coach, and Elliott is Andre's best competitor, but Andre loves him like a son. I see it in his prideful smiles, his encouraging whispers. He wants him out of this as much as I do.

"I'll keep an eye on him," says Andre. "Make sure Damon doesn't freak out."

Turning to leave, I grab my backpack from the ground. I'm halfway out the door when Andre calls my name.

"Almost forgot."

I stop. He hands me a bag stuffed full of tissue paper. "What is this?"

"Open it."

I do. Inside, I find a brand-new pair of burgundy gloves. The quality is better than the pink ones I've been using. They're real boxing gloves, something a professional would wear. They're firm against my hands, but still loose enough for air to travel in and out. A perfect fit.

"Everyone pitched in," Andre explains. "A good luck gift. For your first competition. I wanted you to get used to them before next week."

I hug him. "They're perfect! Thank you."

He guides me out the door, but I don't take the gloves off until I'm seated on the train. Even then, I feel lost without them against my palms. The train speeds through spatters of rain. By the time I reach my station, the sprinkling has turned into a downpour. I'm careful to avoid any puddles, nervous that my reflection in the water might trigger another vision. Every time I see my face, I spot a new change even more drastic than the one before it. Not only are my irises becoming the color of my mother's, but the structure of my face is rounding to be more like hers, too.

Soon enough, my dad will notice.

He's not home when I arrive. I head straight for the kitchen, my stomach rumbling. Preparing a pan of carrots and broccoli to go in the oven, I replay my conversation with Maddy in my head. She couldn't have lied about the princess nickname. That's something only Elliott and I knew.

Elliott.

Before I realize it, I'm thinking about him. His gentle laugh. The way that his rough skin feels against mine. And the empty look in his eyes when he was kissing Maddy. The animalistic part of him that everyone exploits. I love him, and I hate him, and I never want to see him again, and I want to kiss him until I can't remember my own name.

ROSE: Can we talk now?

My finger hovers over the send button.

Elliott could ruin me. Get himself killed somehow. Drink himself to a point where he kisses someone else again.

But there are good possibilities, too. I picture him holding onto me as we walk through school, smiling at Gemma's jokes. Sleeping beside him, letting him protect me from the nightmares I've been having all week.

I hit send.

"Shit!"

Smoke drifts out of the oven. I open all the doors in the house, then fan the gray clouds to avoid triggering the fire alarm. When I'm positive the kitchen is fire-free, I check my phone again.

ELLIOTT: My place in 5. Hurry

I don't give myself a second to think before turning off the oven and sprinting out the front door. This is probably (definitely) a bad idea, but I don't give a shit.

Elliott's car isn't in the driveway when I arrive outside his house. In fact, there are no cars anywhere on the street. Trembling in the pouring rain, I approach the front door already pissed off. If Elliott stands me up, I swear I'm going to break his face.

I knock three times. No answer. Rain beats through my sweater.

Screw it.I try turning the handle.

It moves.

Cautiously, I pull open the door, half expecting someone on the other side to greet me. Nobody does. The mansion is empty. The grandfather clock in the corner booms as it strikes seven. I take a careful step inside. Then another. The door creaks shut.

"Elliott?" I mutter.

My shoes track dirt on the ground as I move toward the kitchen. When I turn the corner, I'm greeted by a member of the King family, but not the one I expected.

Damon smiles wickedly.

My heart skips. I straighten my chin, but I'm sure that it does nothing to hide the terror on my face. Dressed in a black button up and leather shoes, Damon looks like he's just returned from a business trip.

"Hello," I say, as casually as I can. "Is Elliott here?"

Damon doesn't answer. I search for some semblance of surprise on his face to see me strolling through his front door, but I find none. I scan the rest of the room for any sign of Elliott. Apart from us, the house is empty.

My gaze drifts to Damon's hands. His left is hidden in his pocket, but his right holds something rectangular with a case I recognize.

Elliott's phone.

"Rosalyn."

The sound of my full name on his tongue sends a shiver down my spine.

"Where is Elliott?" I ask.

Damon's smile widens. His dark hair falls in loose curls, enveloping his face in shadows.

"He's not home."

Sweat dampens my forehead. Damon lets go of the phone, and it falls to the floor with a crash, tiny shards of glass falling from the screen. He smiles.

"I thought it was time for a family meeting," Damon says, his tone playful.

His fingers bend into fists on the counter. The repetitive movement drives me insane with anticipation. Fresh bruises and scabs line his knuckles. It almost looks like—

"Elliott really quit." I realize. "You couldn't stop him."

Damon's grim expression confirms my suspicion. I didn't consider all the repercussions of Elliott's choice until now. Elliott is Damon's lifeblood. Sure, Luke is a good fighter, but Elliott is the one who holds the crowd. He commands the room without trying. He's a god amongst men in The Ring.

"I don't understand," I whisper, stepping backward toward the door. "You have money from your law firm. Why do you need Elliott?"

He laughs. "It's not all about the money, Rose."

As he speaks, I reach behind my back to try and grab my phone, but Damon is quick to catch on.

"I wouldn't do that," he growls.

I drop my hand. "I don't make Elliott's decisions for him. If he decided to quit—"

"He decides nothing!" The force of his words shakes the crystal chandelier, but he doesn't flinch. "The fighting is a great distraction from all the bad stuff, isn't it? You have a lot of that in your life. I remember hearing the news about Doris. I pitied the child who had to find her mother dead."

Anger blinds me. I move farther away from Damon, my fingers curling involuntarily.

"Don't talk about my mother," I hiss.

The fury in my voice only encourages him. He stops a foot in front of me and twists a loose piece of my hair around his index finger. I freeze, smelling the nicotine on his tongue, his smirk taunting.

"You're her spitting image, you know. She was quite beautiful for a mad woman."

I wince as my back hits the wall. My pulse quickens, blood pumping through my veins. I'm dizzy. "What do you want from me?"

He grins like I've finally asked the right question. "Convince Elliott to fight again."

"What?" I scoff. "I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. You know how he thinks."

"I—"

"He needs this, Rose. He's good in the Ring. We both know he has no future without it."

I clench my jaw. "You're wrong. If you paid him any attention, you'd know he's smart and determined. He could do so much good if you let him out of this."

He laughs. "He really didn't tell you everything, did he?"

"What do you mean?"

"Rose, even if I wanted him to quit, he can't. He's a pawn in a much bigger game. The family profits off him, win or lose. He's the key to their whole operation. If he walks out, they'll find him. They'll find us. They'll make sure their secret never comes out."

I swallow harshly. "You mean—"

"He quits, he dies. End of story."

A thousand-pound weight falls onto my chest. My voice is shrill. "He'll die anyways if he keeps this up."

Damon cuts me off. "This isn't a negotiation, sweetheart. If you're not going to convince him to keep fighting, I'll have to."

Damon snakes his arm around my back and grabs my phone from my hand. He dials three numbers.

I lunge.

I open my mouth to scream, but his palm is pressed against my lips. I bite down on his hand. Salty blood drips onto my teeth, but I don't pull away.

"You little bitch!" he screams, releasing me.

My survival instinct kicks in. I turn away from Damon, prepared to sprint to the front door, but someone blocks my path.

Luke. He grins with false sympathy.

He's a cement wall in the doorway. I search the area, but I don't find an escape.

"He'll know," I pant. "He'll know this was you. I'll find a way to tell him—"

Damon shakes his head, shushing me. He speaks into the phone with fake concern, "Yes, please hurry, my son's girlfriend is out of control, and I'm afraid she's going to hurt herself. It runs in the family."

"Elliott!" I cry out, the sound of his name scratching my dry throat.

Damon smirks, pleased with himself, as he gives the 911 operator the address. "Hurry."

"Elliott will never forgive you for this," I say. "He loves me."

"My son loves nothing."

When the front door opens. I know it's not Elliott coming to my rescue.

"She bit me when I tried to help her," Damon tells an EMT, pointing in my direction. Blood drips from his hand. "That's Rosalyn Berman. She's a neighbor. Recall, her mother killed herself a few years back?"

"Don't worry, Mr. King, we'll take care of it."

There's a heavy hand on my shoulder. It's warm but not comforting.

Elliott loves me.

I love him.

I need him.

My father is alone.

I might be losing it.

Is this what she felt like?

I claw, but it's no good.

"She's screaming."

"Can you hear us?"

"You got something to calm her down?"

"Grab her wrist."

"Stop fighting."

There's no more air in my lungs. I grab onto the closest object to me, one of the EMT's badges, and squeeze. It falls off their neck to the floor, and I take solace in the dented plastic. At least now there's some proof I fought, proof I didn't go down without a fight as useless as it was. Mom. Did you try to save yourself, too?

As I fall, I gasp. Then the world goes black.