I don’t realize I’m taking backward steps, away from all these people and closer to the ones who have become mine.

Scott takes small shuffles toward me. “Remember what I said about there being a difference?” He spits blood to the floor, raising a brow.

There’s a difference between fucking and fucking up...

His chin lowers. “This is it.”

My stomach turns, my pulse pounding hard at my temples.

I take a deep breath, half glancing over my shoulder without actually looking, and with a fixed expression and a straight spine, I go to Scott.

The pull behind me is strong, an almost overpowering tension that grows tighter and tighter, curling over my every limb and adding strain to my already heavy steps.

He tries to hold his smirk in, but his arrogance is beyond his control and it slips.

I reach out, placing my hand on the wall beside him, and the moment he shuffles in, my fingers curl over the championship poster on the wall, the one he’s kneeling proudly in.

I tear it from the wall.

He jolts for me before he realizes what he’s doing, and a wall of muscle is suddenly at my sides, at my back, wrapping around my middle and walking us backward as I crumple the poster between my hands, tossing it at Scott’s feet.

Anger has his limbs trembling, but he scoffs, throws his hands out as if he doesn’t give a shit, and truth is, he doesn’t. Not really.

It’s a small wound to an overflowing ego, patched the moment it was made.

I’m led out the door and only once we’re out of sight of everyone else, does Ransom release me.

He steps back, but not far, and when I refuse to meet his eyes, his knuckles move under my chin, forcing mine to his.

Blood still rolls gingerly down his forehead, over his brow and down the curve of his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He stares me in the eyes, searching for a sign of something, and when the edges of his soften and his knuckle is replaced with the soft swipes of his thumb, I squeeze mine closed.

This is so messed up.

How did I get here?

How did we get here?

I pull away and, at first, it seems like he’ll refuse to let go, but then his hand falls.

The space I’ve created leaves room for my anger to return, but I’m not the only one. Ransom’s gaze is sharp now, his jaw grinding as he glares at me.

Good. That’s good.

If he’s forcing me to feel, anger is the emotion I prefer, I’ll take fire in my veins over an unyielding weight in my chest all day long.