Clear Lake Academy holds the worst of the worst delinquents from around the country. Each and every student there holds a notorious background that led them there and almost everyone avoids them.
After setting the tenth building on fire, which just...
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I hit him before I even felt the decision form.
I slammed my hands up into his chest. When he didn't move, I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, ducked low, and drove my shoulder forward while sweeping the back of his knees. He went down hard. He was bigger. Broader. Probably exhausted.
But so was I.
And I was furious.
He didn't stand a chance before I was on him. My fist came down once. Twice. Again. Each punch snapping his head back against the mat-covered concrete. The sound of impact dulled by the roar of the crowd around us.
He tried to twist out from under me, forearm coming up to block, hips bucking to throw me off balance—but I didn't let up. I shifted with him, straddling tighter, raining down blow after blow.
Pain split across my knuckles but I didn't stop. Warmth spilled across my skin—blood, his or mine, I didn't care. My teeth ground together. My vision tunnelled. Laboured breaths heaved out of me, my teeth grinding together and every muscle in my body fuelled by a type of rage that never left.
I was so done.
Done feeling helpless. Done crying in silence. Done letting someone behind a screen dictate my fear. Done replaying hospital lights and interrogation rooms and threats disguised as protection.
They had taken Bentley.
They had tried to break Hendrix.
They had stalked us, cornered us, pushed us until breathing felt like a privilege.
And I had let myself feel small.
No more.
I was angry and I was done crying. Despite how much I refused the title, I was my father's daughter and I'd show them just what that meant — I'd show them the girl that set buildings on fire and fought people for fun. I'd show them just how dangerous my anger really was and I'd do so much worse than Colton Wilson ever could.
My fist came down again, and for a split second, the face beneath me wasn't the man I was fighting. It was my father's. It was every smirk. Every threat. Every hand raised in warning.
Red blurred my vision.
Hands grabbed at my shoulders, pulling me back. I struggled against them instinctively, staring at the bloody face on the floor.
"Pandora—stop."
Adir.
His arms locked around me from behind, hauling me off the man sprawled on the mat. I struggled, chest heaving, staring at the bloodied face below as if I could still erase something with one more hit.
"You won," Adir said, voice low and steady near my ear. "You won. It's over. You can stop."
