where the thorns grow

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR,

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | WHERE THE THORNS GROW

  THIS HAD BEEN going on for too long. How long have she and Diego been exchanging blows? It was probably only a few minutes, but it felt like forever. She wasn't tired, not exactly. Something about this exhilarated here, filled her with adrenaline. Her heart was pounding in her ear and she was nervous and scared to half-death. This was something she'd been running away from six years and now she was in the centre of it.

  What happened next, if she did win? Would she kill Diego and continue running for it? Or would she risk it and go back to the Wolves? Find Ronan and tell him what had happened, perhaps asking him to consider returning? They'd make up an excuse, she knew they could do it.

  Unless they'd already gotten the letter from Rong'en, who might just have gotten curious and concerned enough to have opened the letter to read. And if that had happened—along with the Meliqueans' disappearance, it might already be too late.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, how had she screwed things up so bad? How had everything gotten so out of control? She ducked Diego's blades and responded with a whip of red smoke that slammed against his hips. She'd given up on the sword a while ago. It wasn't doing much damage and it was starting to get exhausting, keeping up a structure for that long. Temporary ones had always been easier and required far less concentration. Whips, orbs, tendrils. She'd decided to use those instead. So much simpler.

  But it still did not blind her from the fact that this battle would not be advantageous to her shall it continue further.

  She needed to find some way to end it, before it dragged on and on and she inevitably made some lapse of judgement and created a fatal mistake.

  Forcing him against a wall didn't work—monsters like Diego thrived in that kind of cornered, pressured environment. Going for a direct fight didn't work. He matched her in every way and more. Trickery and deception didn't work either. He was far craftier than she'd ever been, and the Falcons always outmatched the Wolves in terms of cunning. They were the alley shadow cats while they were the proud, loyal dogs. They seemed better, yes, but it also put them at a permanent weaker spot, always on the defensive rather than the offensive, and more often than not not realising something was wrong until it was too late.

  It bloody annoyed Rhys, but it was their style. Nothing they could do about it except find a way to outsmart them at their own game, without stooping to their level. Or so said Zhang daren, though Rhys never truly understood that. She always thought it was best to be on equal footing with your foe, even if you looked down on their methods. To win, you sometimes have to put down your own ego and morals. That was just how the world worked, those who only chose to be honourable never won or thrived in the end.

  Or maybe she'd just spent a year too many with the Falcons. That could be it, honestly. Got influenced by them, was taught a few too many tricks and learnt them to heart instead of forgetting them like she should have. She didn't regret it. They kept her alive. She did, in a way, owe the Falcons. It was a rather sick way, though, and considering they killed her parents and exploded her family home and numerous other innocents, she thought they were rather equal and that she didn't owe them at all.

  Just her own opinion, though, and the Falcons—Diego included—clearly did not agree. How fortunate, because she never wanted to agree on a single matter with them again.

  Rebellion at its finest, Rhys liked to think. She was past the age where she rebelled without a care, but a streak of it had clearly remained with her instead of leaving altogether. She supposed it would remain with her for the rest of her days, no matter how long that is.