Untouchable.
The girl who didn’t flinch, capable of ending a rumor with a single sentence, and whose smile could cut like the sharpest blade.
But that wasn’t likely to happen with Ben.
At home, I was the girl on a mat, sweating and shaking, pretending my body didn’t hurt because the alternative was weakness—and weakness was blood in the water.
“Last drill,” he said tonelessly. “Knife work.”
Ben moved to the workbench and opened the drawer. The blade he pulled out wasn’t flashy. No serrations. No dramatic shine. Just a clean, practical knife that would do what it was meant to do without ceremony.
He tossed it.
I caught it automatically.
He nodded once, approval silent. “Grips wrong.”
I adjusted.
“Again.”
I adjusted. Again.
Ben set up a dummy—canvas wrapped tight around a stand, marked with taped-off zones. It looked like a torso if you squinted and let your imagination do the work.
“Here and here,” he pointed at the strike points. “That’s where you need to hit to cause maximum damage."
I practiced hitting the points over and over. My arms screamed, and my hands were wet with sweat. The knife felt impossibly heavier with each strike.
“Taryn.”
He spoke my name as if it were an order.
I stilled.
He leaned in, his gaze heavy. “You believe you can control what others think of you.”
My throat went dry. It was a statement rather than a question.
“I don’t care what people think,” I muttered defensively.
“Yes, you do.” He stepped back, and the muscle in his cheek tightened. “Because if they knew the real you, they’d see the gentle nature you try so desperately to hide. The weakness, and you’d be prey instead of predator.”
I froze, gripping the knife tightly in my hand.
He stared at me for a long moment, daring me to throw it. I felt sweat dripping between my breasts, and my lungs heaved, trying to draw in enough air.
I was NOT prey.
With a desire that surpassed everything else in my life—I wanted to throw it, but I wouldn’t. As much as I wanted to kill him, my dumbass hadn’t given up on the slim chance that one day I’d win his approval… and maybe his love.
Most days, I hated myself as much as I did him.
He looked at me, almost as if he was disappointed. As if, by not throwing it I’d proved his point.
“Rerun it.”
I did.
