Rebel
I survived the week.
That was the whole of my ambition by Friday and I’d met it — five days of driving Lily’s soft, pampered body through a meat grinder and coming out the other side still able to stand.
Mostly.
If I didn’t think too hard about my hamstrings.
The blisters had toughened into calluses. The bruises had layered into a kind of permanent tenderness I’d stopped noticing. Somewhere under the wreckage a real muscle or two had started to remember its job.
I’d thoroughly enjoyed it. That would have horrified the original Lily, who’d spent twenty years treating her body as a thing to be starved, pampered and displayed rather than used. I liked the ache of having spent myself. I liked putting overgrown boys in the dirt. I liked the look on Adrian’s face when I refused to br
