Page 189 of I’m The Worst

“I picked that out special for you, and you were just gonna leave it behind.”

Graves leans against the row of lockers beside mine. Shirt half off, a fresh bruise blooming over one rib and dried blood crusted along the side of his jaw.

“Come on,” he says. “You used to love dressing up like a big, bad wolf and chasing pussy through the woods.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” I grumble.

He laughs, pushing off the metal and yanking open his locker. “I saw the mission assignments. Two dogshit jobs in a row? That’s rough. At this rate, David’s gonna have you alphabetizing ammo in the basement.”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“Oh, we’re absolutely having this conversation.” He strips the rest of the way out of his shirt and tosses it into the locker. “First, Russia fucks your head up, then you start moping around like some rejected wife, and now⁠—”

Slam.

My locker door slams beside my head, rattling the entire row. I hear the footsteps half a second too late—too focused on Graves, too focused on not putting my fist through concrete—and then instinct takes over.

I spin around, my hand catching the wrist attached to the arm that slammed my locker, fingers crushing bone as I drive Gage backward into the metal hard enough to buckle it. A knife is in my hand before I consciously reach for it. One second, it’s at my side, and the next, it’s pressed flat beneath his jaw, the tip biting into the soft skin of his throat.

“Stay the fuck away from my sister.” He shoves at my chest. I pin the blade, pressing harder until a thin line of blood slides down his neck.

Graves lets out a laugh and drops onto the bench, unlacing his boots. “Jesus Christ, kid. You really picked a bad fucking day to grow a spine.”

Gage’s chest heaves against mine. His fingers lock around my forearm, trying to wrench the knife away. “Wolff,” he grits out, “I’m not fucking around.”

The blade digs deeper, more blood spilling over the steel and sliding down onto my knuckles. “Does this feel like I’m fucking around?”

“You need to stay away from her.”

“Or what?”

I twist his wrist until something in his shoulder pops. He hisses through his teeth, knees buckling for half a second before I slam him back into the locker. He jerks against me again, the stupid little bastard still trying to fight through a knife at his throat.

Graves leans back on his palms. “If you’re gonna kill the twink, at least make it fun to watch.”

“She’s fucking spiraling because of you,” Gage grinds out. “She thinks you love her.”

My grip tightens, cutting off more of his air. Fucking hell. The prick is turning purple, and he still won’t shut the fuck up. Must run in the family—AJ never shuts up either.

“She’s talking about leaving David. About destroying her whole fucking life. She’s convinced there’s something between you two. She’s ruining herself over you and you don’t even⁠—”

I move before he finishes the sentence.

I lift him off the locker and throw him across the room.

His body slams into the cinderblock wall, hard enough to crack the plaster and send a metal folding chair skidding across the floor. He hits the ground on one knee, coughing, but I’m already on him. My hand fists in the front of his shirt and hauls him up, just to drive him back into the wall again.

When he takes a swing at me, I catch his fist mid-air, smash my forehead into his nose, the cartilage giving. He chokes on a grunt, blood pouring instantly down over his mouth. I don’t let him drop. I grab the back of his neck and drive my knee up into his ribs, feeling something shift wrong beneath the impact.

He folds with a strangled gasp.

I throw him face-first into the lockers.

Metal buckles. His cheek scrapes down the vents with a wet, ugly sound.

“Wolff—” he coughs, trying to twist away.

I hook an arm around his throat from behind and drag him backward into me, locking him there. My forearm crushes against his windpipe while his heels scrape uselessly across the concrete.