The first punch sent him staggering.
Before he could even regain his footing, I hit him again. And again.
My fist connected with flesh and bone until I saw blood. Until my face twisted with something feral and unrecognizable. My chest rose and fell like I’d just clawed my way out of deep water, lungs burning, vision narrowing. The room felt too small. Too tight. The walls were closing in.
He groaned, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smeared across his skin.
He didn’t look angry.
That was the worst part.
“If that makes you feel better,” he said quietly, voice steady despite the pain, “go on. Hit me again.”
I laughed—short, shocked, humorless. Bitter.
“You don’t get a say in what makes me feel better,” I snapped. “You don’t get to decide anything. Not t
