Page 40 of Yours on the Canvas

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, grabbing my jacket off the back of the chair. My bruises might be gone, but my ribs are still not fully healed; proven when I struggle to get my arm through the sleeve without wincing. I force it anyway, and Silas sees it.

Fuck.

“Right. You’re indestructible. I forgot,” Silas says, voice flat, dripping with dry sarcasm.

“I said I’m fine,” I snap back, zipping my jacket up with a sharp tug. “Stop wrapping me in bubble wrap, Silas. I’m not broken.”

“Watch me,” he fires back, his easygoing charm completely gone, replaced by that stubbornness that drives me insane. I know I’m stubborn, but he takes the damn cake. And I know I’m picking this fight, I just don’t know why.

All I want to do is go back to bed, because as much as I hate to admit it, Silas is right. My ribs hurt. He was gentle last night, not pushing my body too hard, but it hurt then, and it hurts now.

But I’m not telling him that.

“I’m still breathing!” I throw my hands up, frustration boiling over. “As I said, Silas. I’m fine.” I punctuate every word with a finger pointed directly at him.

I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I’m committed now, and I’m too far in to back out.

Silas stares down at me, his jaw working overtime on those perfect teeth of his, and then his shoulders drop just a fraction. His anger bleeds out of him, replaced by that quiet intensity that hooks into me deeper than any fight ever could.

“You’re driving me insane, dove. You know that, right?”

Shit. He used my nickname, but I can’t deal with this right now.

“Then I’ll leave,” I say, turning and walking out.

I get into my truck, tears burning behind my eyes, and I rub at them angrily. What the hell did I just do? I picked a fight for no reason at all. With Silas.

Shoving it into drive, I head to the café.

* * *

It’s not overly busy today. A few customers are seated, and I’m grateful, because my ribs are screaming at me; every breath feels like grinding two fractured bone ends together, a neat little souvenir from the beating my father and uncle sat ringside to watch. As much as I hate to admit it, Silas was right. I should’ve stayed home. But because I’m a stubborn idiot, here I am making coffees for people when all I want is to go to bed, take some painkillers, and sleep.

The bell above the door rings, and I look up.

My body goes cold the second I see the two men who walk in. The plate in my hand freezes mid-air as every muscle locks tight. Terror floods through every inch of me. I’m on my own right now, Finn’s training a small group of kids, and Silas is at PalMerc.

I have no one. They knew that, a dark voice whispers in my head. They always know.

They sit at a corner table and pick up the menus, acting like they’re here for a business lunch. They glance over at me, and I would swallow, but my mouth is dry, and my feet won’t move.

One of them raises a hand.

I know I have to walk over. They know I can’t make a scene, not with other customers here. Forcing my feet to move, I grab my pen and pad, each step making my stomach roll, bile sitting thick at the back of my throat.

I reach their table, and they smile at me.

“Good morning, Jackie.” That name sends chills tearing straight through my body.

I nod, my voice having completely abandoned me.

“Good to see you, Son,” my dad says with a smooth, sickeningly warm smile.

It’s as if the fucker hadn’t watched me get beaten half to death in a bloody ring, as if he hadn’t left me broken in the dirt to die

My uncle ignores the greeting entirely, still looking down at the menu in his hand.

“Two coffees. Black.” My skin crawls when he speaks. He doesn’t even look up at me, just keeps studying the laminated page like it deserves absolute, undivided concentration.