Page 69 of Pack Frenzy
We pass the knife-throw booth, and I stop, teeth catching my lower lip.
The board is painted with concentric circles, a red heart in the middle, daring someone. The knives gleam under the string lights—too bright, too clean. Theater props, probably. But my palms know the weight of a real blade before my eyes finish the assessment, and something old and practiced sits up in my chest.
“Three throws, three tickets,” the attendant says, grin wide under a faded green cap. “Win your sweetheart something nice.”
Cassian’s eyebrow ticks. “Sweetheart?”
“Don’t,” Eli warns. “It’s just part of the show.”
I’m already reaching for my tickets. My fingers move without permission, the same way they used to reach for the practice blades Miguel laid out on the kitchen table. Muscle memory doesn’t ask. It just knows.
Rowan’s watching me and not the booth. “Jess?”
“Want to take a stab at it. Pun intended.” I hand over the tickets and pick up the first knife.
Wrong. Immediately wrong. The balance is off, the weight too far forward, like someone designed it to look dangerous instead of accurate. It sits in my palm as my fingers adjust, finding the center, the spin point, the place where force meets release. My thumb knows where to press.
Fifteen years old and shaking in our kitchen while Miguel stood behind me, smell of coffee and gun oil, his voice patient: “Find the weight. Use it.”
I exhale and let it fly.
The knife hits dead center with a sound that punches through the noise of the fair—solid, final,thunk. The handle quivers.
The attendant’s eyebrows try to leave his face.
I take the second knife. Heavier than the first. They’re not even weighted the same—cheap carnival trick—but I adjust andthrow. It splits the first, shank kissing shank, both buried in red paint.
Eli whistles behind me. I push everything aside except my heartbeat and the knife in my palm and the way the third one sits differently again, begging for a finer grip.
Then I throw.
It lands left of center. Still in the heart. Still good.
The fair comes back in pieces. Music. Laughter. The salt-caramel air. My hand is steady when I lower it, but there’s a shake working its way up from my wrists that has nothing to do with aim and everything to do with the weight of their attention.
“And the lady wins a prize,” the attendant says, gesturing to a row of medium stuffed animals, then gives me a sly smile. “Or you could go again now or anytime before we close for a bigger prize.”
“I’ll save mine for next time.” And I start to walk away with the guys going with me.
“Remind me never to antagonize you near cutlery,” Rowan says, and his tone sounds like it’s mixed with respect and wariness underlying something darker I can’t quite name.
I should laugh. Make a joke. The shape of one is forming—something about trust issues and sharp objects—but my airway won’t cooperate. Because this wasn’t just carnival tricks. This was proof of everything I’ve spent years trying to forget.
“Saw this in your records,” Eli says quietly, “but damn. Seeing it in person is a whole other level.”
My stomach twists. Right. They know things about me. Things I didn’t choose to share…or at least Eli does. And by the expression of surprise on Cassian and Rowan’s faces, I’d say he was telling the truth.
“Who taught you?” Cassian asks, and my eyes burn thinking about my past.
“My father hired someone when I turned fifteen.” The words come out flat. Easier to deliver facts than feelings. “A guy named Miguel. Don’t know where he found him, and I learned early not to ask questions.”
Don’t tell them that was two months after Sabrina disappeared. Don’t tell them you were so scared you couldn’t sleep. Don’t tell them Miguel was the only adult who made you feel like survival was possible.
Miguel. Gray at his temples, chicken pox scars dotting his cheeks. The way he never touched me without asking first, which made him safer than most of my father’s staff.
“He taught me knives, pistols, leverage points.” My shoulder rolls, trying to shake off the weight of it. “What to do if someone grabs you from behind. How to break a hold without breaking your hand.”
The fair blurs a little at the edges. I blink, and it sharpens. “My dad called it ‘being practical,’ but he never taught me anything himself. Too busy with his work.” Too busy pretending our family wasn’t falling apart. Too busy to see me drowning.
