Cameron Casey and Annabeth Taylor are about to find out just how deep a burn can hurt you. Together, they're being trained to take over the family business. Neither of them want the lives their fathers have planned out and they realize that sometim...
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Finn aesthetic because we all love the little pyro (: (: (:
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Cameron. 16 years old.
"Give me him."
I tried my hardest to keep track of his feet, fists, arms, and eyes and anticipate each movement he could make. He looked relaxed and casual to anyone who didn't know him.
I knew him.
"Cammie," my dad coaxed. "Let me get to Alex."
He was tense. I could tell by the way he held his shoulders. By the way one foot was slightly in front of the other. The way his fingers were too still, too alert. He was preparing for a fight.
"Cam," Alex said quietly from behind me. He had a hand on my lower back, probably to keep me from backing up into him any more.
I didn't look back at him like I wanted to when I said, "Shut up."
"It's okay," Alex said.
"I said shut up," I snapped, keeping my full attention on our dad.
Alex didn't know what he was talking about. He didn't know what my dad really wanted because when I was his age, he used all the same tricks on me. He disguised all of the bad parts about what he was teaching me until it was too late — the pain, the guilt, the death. I wouldn't let Alex go down that same path. Like right now, my dad wanted him to train with my Uncle Scully. Alex knew how to fight but there was a difference between learning with anyone and learning with my uncle. My uncle taught you how to get a concussion and keep fighting through it. My uncle gave the concussion himself. He'd been screaming at me to get up and stop being a baby the first time he'd punched me so hard I couldn't breathe.
My brother was ten years old and he didn't deserve that and the fact that my dad was clearly readying himself to fight me over it said all I needed to know. My mom had wanted better for us. I wanted better for us.
I clenched my fists and watched carefully as my dad took one, two steps. Halfway through his third step, when his collected expression began turning into a sneer, I punched him as hard as I could in the face. Somewhere in the back of my mind, after years of fighting, a part of me recognized the feel of my knuckle splitting.
