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“Trixie?” His voice tugs me back from the edge of sleep. “Carter’s been asking about you. Feel up to seeing him?”

My heart skips a beat. Carter. The thought of his hands, those strong hands I’ve seen wrapped for fights, touching me makes my stomach clench. Not in fear, exactly, but something more tangled.

“I’m not sure,” I say, gripping the comforter tighter.

“That’s fine.” He moves slightly, his weight making the mattress dip anew. “There’s no hurry.”

But there is, I think. I need to find myself again, prove the fighter in me is still here.

The fear is real, but hiding won’t make it go away. It will just let it win.

“I want to try,” I say, the words feeling fragile but real. “I want to see him.”

My father studies me, his weathered face a mask. “Are you sure?”

No. But I nod. “Yeah, I am.”

He gets up with a kind of precision that makes him seem younger. At the door, he pauses. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

A knock startles me, my pulse jumping hard.

“Come in,” I say, surprised by the steadiness of my voice.

The first thing I see is the new patch on his cut: Malice. He’s got a road name now. Before, it was just his name stitched there. I think of him bursting into that barn—the raw fury on his face, the way he went for Evan. Not just angry. Malicious. Like he would’ve torn him apart with his hands and not thought twice.

The door opens, and Carter steps in, his six-foot-three frame overwhelming the small space. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and the usual control he wears just crumbles. “Hey,” he says, his voice rougher than normal.

“Hey yourself.” I pat the space next to me on the bed. He hesitates, then sits on the edge of the mattress, his weight creating a small valley that pulls me closer. “I don’t know what to say,” I admit.

“You don’t have to say anything.” His hand hovers near mine. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Tell me something normal,” I whisper.

His jaw clenches. “Matthew punched a wall three times. We had to fix the drywall.”

A small laugh escapes me. “Sounds like Matthew.”

“He was scared,” Carter says. The words hang between us.

I search his face—the dark circles, the tense shoulders. “Were you scared?”

His eyes catch mine. “Terrified,” he says. “I’ve faced guys twice my size in the ring and never felt like this.”

Something changes, but before he can say more, I push back the covers. “I can’t just lie here. I need to get up. See everyone.”

My legs are shaky as I stand. On the way to the stairs, my reflection in the hallway mirror stops me cold. My hair is a chaotic mess, and my shirt slips off one shoulder, revealing a purple-black bruise. This is me—a wreck, but standing.

The stairs feel impossibly long. I clutch the banister, taking each step with care. Halfway down, the chatter below fades. From the last step, I spot them. Dad by the window. Matthew in the kitchen doorway. And Carter, who had followed me down, stands in the middle of the room, his back to me.

He turns, and his look lands with a physical jolt. His dark eyes scan my tangled hair, the slipping strap, the bruise I can’t hide. For a second, something raw and unguarded flickers across his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost to himself.

My hand jumps to my hair, feeling exposed. “I know I look⁠—”

“Here,” he interrupts, voice thick with emotion. “You’re here. That’s what counts.”

He steps closer, careful, like I might spark or fade away.