Chapter Twenty-Five

The burst of energy that erupts through my body is like nothing I've ever felt before.

If I had been able to compete in Andre's competition yesterday, I imagine this is what it would've been like. Pure adrenaline. Impossible strength. A surge of determination. Everything else fades to black as I zero in on Major's carefully crafted smile.

Without hesitating, I slam my right knuckles into his nose. A sharp sting means I've broken my hand, but I push it away for now. Major pauses. He touches his nose as a thin stream of blood spills from it. Although I've watched Elliott punch people in the face before, I never understood why he would want to cause such harm. Now that I'm the one punching, it makes sense. The blood feels like victory, something I've earned, and I want more of it.

Major wraps his hand into the front of my T-shirt. He yanks me forward, but my feet are planted firmly in place. The cloth rips directly down the middle of my body. A rush of cold air sweeps against my newly exposed skin. I drop the remains of the material to the floor and approach him in nothing but a sports bra.

I'm terrified. This man is massive, and he's staring at me like I'm nothing but an insect ready to be squashed. With the adrenaline rushing from my brain to my body, my fear is muted. Anger is all I feel. Because Andre is letting Elliott compete. Because of Damon's willingness to risk his son's life. Because Elliott refuses to see his own worth.

Major snaps. He swings his hips as he barrels toward me.

From the ground, Elliott moves his ankle to block Major's path.

It works. Major falls forward, letting out a stifled groan as he collapses onto the floor. I take the split second to examine Elliott. He's barely moving, and his breathing is unsteady. Crimson covers him, his beautiful tattoos buried in blood, the gash on the back of his head relentless. Slowly, he lifts a finger, pointing toward Major's abdomen.

"One!" the referee screams.

I slam my foot into Major's stomach. I put all my weight onto his body to try and keep him down. He yanks at my hair, and my head whips back. I scream.

I'm not strong enough. I wasn't then, and I'm not now.

I see Harris's face in Major's. He licks his lips. He's starving for blood, and I'm the main course. He sits up from the filthy floor of the ring, a clump of my hair clutched between his knuckles. "Two!"

Elliott's eyelids flutter. He smiles the goofy grin I love before he drifts away again. I wail, the same inhuman sound I let out when I found my mom, but it's not enough to draw Elliott's attention back to me. He's breathing but slowly—too slowly.

This has to end. And not on Elliott's terms. I have to do this myself.

Major's back on his feet.

He releases my hair and grips my throat instead. Immediately, I lose my breath, the pressure of his weight against my windpipe makes spots of color appear.

Harris grins.

Major smiles.

Harris wants my body.

Major wants me dead.

I gasp for air, but none finds me.

I dig my nails into his hands, but he doesn't flinch. Major shuffles so my neck is in the crook of his elbow. Any chance of escape is lost. His arms are stronger than his fingers. My eyes are stinging, my lungs pleading for oxygen that won't come.

Suddenly, I remember what Elliott taught me that afternoon in Midtown Ring when we practiced alone. He showed me how to escape a chokehold. I move my hands around the outside of Major's arm, and in one fluid motion, I pull with everything I've got.

It doesn't work.

Major's grip is stone. Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shi—

I can't think because I can't breathe. And if I can't breathe . . .

Choking feels like drowning, I realize. Like when I was little and thought I could swim without my floaties and sunk to the bottom of the pool. Like my mom drowned when she took those pills. She let the ocean of her thoughts overtake her, and she couldn't find her way back to the surface.

I hope it was more peaceful than this.

I force my eyes to stay open because if I close them, I'm not sure if they'll ever open again. I study Elliott. Instead of a bloody and beaten mess, I picture him that day in the gym when we practiced. He was strong and loving. He didn't make me feel small as he pressed me against the wall and whispered, "Never get distracted."

I freeze.

Major's so focused on crushing my throat that he's left the bottom half of his body wide open.

So I do what I wish I would've done to Harris Price that night in Elliott's bedroom.

I punch him with all of my strength square in the crotch.

Again. And again. And again.

Major wheezes. He crashes against the floor, hugging his knees. I gasp so loud the room shakes as air fills my lungs again. I plant my entire weight on Major's abdomen. Distracted by his pain, he doesn't think to move me.

"One, Two, Three!"

The crowd erupts into a symphony of shouts and applause. One of the men in suits makes his way into the ring and grabs my arm, yanking to pull me away from the ring. But I plant my feet into the floor.

"I won," I mutter, more to myself than to him. He gawks at me like I've grown a second head.

"What the hell do you think this is, little girl? You got lucky!"

"I won," I repeat, my voice louder now, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. I'm transfixed by the envelope of money sticking out of his suit jacket. "If you win, you get the money," I state.

Somebody shouts, "Pay her!"

Screams fill the food court. The suited man stares nervously around the room.

"Do it, asshole!"

"Pay up!"

I tilt my chin. Hesitantly, the man removes the envelope from his suit pocket and opens it. He passes me only half.

"All of it!" another person shouts.

From the floor, Elliott lets out a pained moan.

He needs me.

I grab what cash the suited man will give me and turn to where Damon King is watching. As I approach him, spectators on my left and right hand me bills. Damon leans into my ear. "Major was supposed to win." He glances into the shadows, where I can barely make out the shape of three figures. "We broke their trust," he says. "Elliott will pay for this."

I shiver, but I don't have time to dwell. Elliott can't take the fall for anything if he's dead. I pocket the money and scurry back to Elliott's side. To my relief, he's still breathing.

"Elliott," I say. "Wake up."

From the crowd, Luke steps forward and takes the place at my side. He hoists Elliott up by his arm. Together, we drag him back onto his feet. Elliott mutters nonsense and moans as we move him against his will.

The audience clears a path big enough for the three of us. Women shove bills into my waistband and my sports bra as we leave—twenties, fifties, hundreds, too many to count. I throw open the door, allowing Luke to drag Elliott outside into the freezing November air.

"He needs a hospital," I demand. "Now."

Luke throws me a pair of car keys. Elliott's keys. His black convertible is parked around the corner.

"Take him," Luke instructs. "I'll handle my father."

We guide Elliott to the car and strap his limp body into the passenger's seat. I sit in the driver's seat and press the ignition. Luke slips back inside of the building, where I can hear a fight amongst the crowd break out.

I'm halfway out of the parking spot when I remember I can't drive.

Elliott groans. I don't have time to wait for Gemma to pick us up. I have no choice but to drive.

I count to three and breathe.

I can do this. Elliott is not going to die because of me. I will not be too late again.

Thinking back to junior year, I try and recall the week my dad enrolled me in driver's education classes. I slept through most of it.

"Shit," I groan, slamming my forehead into the wheel.

You've seen Elliott drive. Copy him.

I put my hand on the gearshift. I press steadily against the gas pedal.

I turn right onto the main road. Like Elliott, I coast above the speed limit instantly, but I don't care. The hospital is a straight shot. The streets are empty. And before I fully realize I'm actually driving, I'm back in the Grady Hospital parking lot. I swing the car into a spot close to the entrance. I slam on the break, narrowly avoiding a concrete pole.

"Rose?"

The sound comes from Elliott. I look at him, but he's already half asleep again. I unbuckle his seatbelt and dive out of the car. There's no way I can pick him up on my own. I leave the car and sprint through the emergency doors.

"Help!" I scream to the first person I see—a nurse dressed in blue scrubs. I point to the car. The nurse nods. She gathers help from staff behind her. One wheels a stretcher outside. I watch as they peel Elliott from the car, lay him down on the stretcher and rush into the building, leaving me in the dust. I stand under the glow of the fluorescent lights of the emergency room frozen like an actor with stage fright.

A staff member from across the emergency room motions for me to take a seat. I collapse onto a plastic chair as Elliott's limp body is wheeled into a room on my right.

I dig my fingernails into my palm until the skin bleeds. The pain is grounding.

One of the nurses guides me into an empty room. She asks a series of questions that I don't have the answers to. She inspects my body for scrapes and bruises. I'm covered in them. Her finger brushes against my right knuckles.

"Does that hurt?" she asks.

I shake my head "no." I can't feel it.

"Your hand is broken."

"Can I please see my boyfriend?" I ask.

"Let me fix this up first, okay?"

I don't have the energy to argue. She brings in a doctor who repeats the same set of questions. He puts my hand in a brace, and as he works, I inspect the door of the room Elliott was wheeled into. It's cracked open slightly. Someone walks out with a mess of soaked bandages.

I shoot up from the bed. Both the nurse and the doctor hold me down. I stop squirming, fearing that they might attempt to sedate me.

"This should help for now," the doctor says, pointing down at the brace on my hand. "But you'll need to follow up to make sure it's healing correctly. Do you have an emergency contact I can call?"

"No," I say blankly. "Can I see him now?"

I'm not sure how much time passes until they finally give in and take me to Elliott's room. A nurse remains at my side, guiding me to the spot in front of his bed.

His blue eyes are closed. He's covered in wires and machines, but his chest is rising and falling. Alive.

"It could be a while before he wakes up," the nurse informs me.

Glancing at my phone, I sigh impatiently. It's almost sunrise. I have to get back to the psych wing.

"We found no internal bleeding," the nurse explains. "He has a bad concussion, broken bones, and twenty stitches on the back of his head. Your boyfriend is really, really lucky."

Impossibly lucky. I drift to Elliott's side. He's broken and bruised, but he's here with me. "Wake up," I whisper. "Please."

I squeeze his left hand; the one that isn't wrapped in a cast. His skin is cold and white as a sheet. The nurse slides me a chair, but I don't sit. I'm not sure I could get back up if I do.

"Can you tell us what happened? Is there any family we should call?"

"I'm his family," I mutter, not answering her first question.

She takes the hint. "I'll give you two some space."

I watch as fluid drips into Elliott's veins. He looks like a corpse, and if not for his steady breathing, I'm not sure I would believe he was alive. As I turn to watch the nurse leave the room, a familiar whisper calms every shaking nerve in my body.

"You're bruised," says Elliott.

I stare down at him as he opens his eyes. Despite the bandages and wires, he looks like an angel. A fallen angel. He brushes his thumb against the purple and blue bruise peeking out from the brace around my hand.

"You beat him?" he asks.

A small, proud smile turns the corner of my lips.

"Yes," I reply. "I used my head. Like you taught me."

He grins faintly. His breathing is labored and shrill; each time he inhales, it sounds like grinding metal. Elliott's gasps in terror as he recalls what happened in the mall. I wish I could tell him that everything is going to be fine, that he's free from any pain, that his father isn't going to touch him again. But now is not the time for false promises, so I decide to go with what I know to be true.

"I love you."

He exhales, and this time, it's effortless. He cups my cheek with his broken hand.

"I love you," he says.

Those three words are all I needed to hear. As he speaks, he smiles, and I can tell it takes all his strength. I kiss him gently on the lips, careful not to touch any of his scattered cuts. We melt into each other with ease.

"What happened, Rose?"

"I can't explain it all now," I respond, inching away from him. I don't want to move, but every minute I stay here increases the risk of Gemma and Nishi getting into more trouble. "I have to go. I'm supposed to be in the psych ward."

Elliott's eyes widen, confirming my suspicion that his father never told him the truth about where I was. He furrows his brows. "What do you mean?"

"Call your brother. He'll tell you everything," I mutter, much to Elliott's surprise. "I think he loves you too."

I squeeze his hand one last time, ignoring the shooting pain in my shattered fingers. I would suffer this pain a thousand times if it meant being able to hold him.