Page 14 of Lethal in Pink

My father’s objections have shifted rhythms. They no longer come from a man who is trying to win, but rather from a man trying to make sure his son understands the cost of winning.

My mother looks over at my father, “Blackthorn is a really good school and I do still have some connections there. Maybe we could make this work.”

He stands with his arms crossed. His expression is set in the particular way that means he has made a decision he is not entirely at peace with but will honor.

“Blackthorn,” he says. “One year and a half. Under a quiet identity.” He pauses. “Not Kai Ryu. Not your full birth name. Just Jae Kim.”

It's an unremarkable name. A name that could belong to anyone.

I like it.

He turns his gaze to my own. “You understand the conditions?”

I say I do.

“No public performances. No singing. No stage. You attend as a student and nothing else. No exceptions.” His voice leaves no room for negotiation, not that I was planning to argue. “You maintain the alias. You do not tell anyone who you are, not friends, not classmates, not professors. If someone recognizes you…no they don’t.”

I can feel my face stretching into a wide ass smile that probably has me looking like a fucking goon—not that I care. “Thank you,” I say, and my voice comes out hoarse, like something scraped from the bottom of a well. “Thank you, I—I won’t disappoint you.”

My father doesn’t return the smile. He doesn’t have to. The slight softening around his eyes is enough.

My mother stands and crosses the room, wrapping her arms around me in a hug that smells like her jasmine perfume. “I truly hope you enjoy your time at Blackthorn,” she says, her voice steady, even though her eyes are not. “I know I did.”

I nod.

My father puts a warm, firm hand at the back of my neck. The gesture is so rare it feels like being struck by lightning. He says nothing. Picks up his planner from the cushion and leaves the room. The door closes behind him with a soft click that might as well be the sound of the world rearranging itself.

The weight of what I’ve won settles into my bones. I got what I asked for. The conditions are real. The risks are real. And so is the danger.

I’m not stupid enough to think otherwise.

But the exhilaration is real too, and right now, it’s winning.

Chapter five

Amiyah

My punch hits its mark with a loud smack, like a cross between a slap and a thud. Penelope loses her footing, her right foot catching the edge of the mat, and for a brief moment, about one and a half seconds, her arms flail wildly as she struggles to regain her balance. But gravity has other plans, and soon she's reminded that balance is just a suggestion, and it's not going to save her from falling.

She falls to the side, her knee giving way beneath her, the other leg stretching out behind her in a strange, awkward pose, like a dancer losing their balance in a dramatic performance.

I stand over her, hands already reset to guard position and wait.

Penelope slaps the mat with enough force to make the sound carry.

“Tap,” she says, “The score is now three to zero, Lane, and I want to put it on record that I'm not happy with the way this is going. I think my skills would be better used somewhere else, and I'm formally protesting the terms of this engagement.”

She gestures toward the bench along the wall where her laptop bag sits, sleek and black and full of exactly the kind of machinery that keeps people like me breathing.

I nod. “Noted.”

“That’s it? Noted? Not even a single crumb of sympathy? I just ate three of your punches and a leg sweep that I’m pretty sure violated quite a few laws.”

“It didn’t violate anything. You left your guard down.”

“My guard was down because I was actively dying from the last combo, Amiyah. Dying. I saw a white light. I think my great-aunt Martha waved at me from the other side.”

“You don’t have a great-aunt Martha.”