Page 76 of Broken By Silence
“I don’t want to be a survivor anymore,” I whisper, hoarse, shaking. “I want to be dangerous.”
Claire’s lips curve. “Then stop being afraid of the girl who lived through it. Let her out. She already knows how to survive. Teach her how to win.”
Something breaks open in me. Something raw, jagged, but steady.
We rise again.
This time, I don’t hesitate.
I move sharper, faster. My body still stumbles, butit’s fierce. When Claire strikes, I block. When she presses, I counter. When she grabs me from behind, I drop low, twist hard, and drive my elbow into her ribs.
She stumbles. My heart leaps. I freeze.
“Don’t stop,” she snaps, slicing through my hesitation.
But I falter anyway. Just for a breath.
She seizes my arm, yanks me forward, and sweeps my legs. I slam down hard, the mat jolting through my spine.
She hovers above me, not striking, not pinning. Just watching, her chest rising and falling.
“Do you know how many girls don’t get up?” she asks quietly, the sharpness fading from her voice.
Tears sting. “Too many.”
“Exactly.” She extends her hand.
My body aches, but I take it. Her palm is rough, strong, grounding as she hauls me to my feet. She doesn’t let go.
“You’re meant for more than survival,” she says, eyes burning with a fierce kind of love. “You’re meant to be your own goddamn rescue story.”
That undoes me.
The tears break. I surge forward, clutching her tight, burying my face in her shoulder.
And Claire—she doesn’t freeze. She doesn’t pull back. She holds me just as fiercely, her arms locked around me like iron, like she refuses to let me forget what I am.
For the first time in forever, I feel not just alive, not just surviving.
I feel unbreakable.
The next morning,I wake up sore in all the wrong places. My shoulders ache, my knuckles sting, and my thighs feel like they’ve been set on fire and left to coolovernight.
Claire’s words still echo in my head—You’re meant to be your own goddamn rescue story.
Well. Fine.
Time for a little payback rescue of my own.
Revenge therapy, if you will.
I slip out of bed quietly, tugging Archer’s hoodie over my head. It hangs off my shoulders like a shield, his scent still clinging to it. The house is quiet except for the low thud of bass coming from the gym. That’s my cue.
I pad barefoot down the hall, grinning like a thief in a fairytale.
All three of their bathroom doors are open—thank you, idiots, for your predictability—and the sound of weights clanging tells me they’re still mid-workout.
Perfect.
