I’d completely forgotten about my wager with Mason.
8
MALLORY
The house was quiet when I got home. Too quiet, especially when I knew for a fact Mom was inside. The car was parked out front, and her purse hung by the front door when I wandered in, but the woman herself was nowhere to be found, which made me uneasy.
Everything about tonight had left me off balance.
I dropped my house keys in the bowl by the door, the familiar clink echoing through the stillness. “Mom!” I called as I walked through the house, but I got no response. My ears did pick up a faint familiar thud.
Going to the basement door, I opened it and trotted down the narrow stairs, one hand trailing along the wall for balance in the dim light. There was a reason Mom picked this place. A basement had been nonnegotiable when she’d been searching for a home to rent. It had nothing to do with needing storage or more space. She had other plans.
Mom stood in the center of the room under the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Her gleaming dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, not a strand loose. She wore a sports braand leggings, both black and fitted. Her shoulders were relaxed, but her eyes were sharp as she assessed the wooden target dummy against the far wall.
The dummy was already scarred with use, dents clustered around the center, splinters radiating out from repeated impacts, the wood grain exposed where paint had chipped away.
She held a knife loosely in her right hand, blade pointing down, completely at ease before her wrist flicked, a small, controlled movement. My mom had skills, and watching her, I was envious. She was so confident and powerful. Nothing seemed to scare her. I wasn’t sure I’d inherited any of her courage, her spirit, or her grit.
She was one of a fucking kind.
The knife left her hand in a clean arc, spinning through the air.
Thud.
The blade buried itself deep, dead center into the dummy’s chest.
She didn’t look muscular. Not in the way someone might expect a killer to appear. No bulging biceps or obvious strength. She was lean and elegant, her body honed from hours of disciplined training.
She’d learned skills that didn’t require brute force. Precision over power. Speed over strength. The technique came from years of practice, from treating violence like an art form demanding respect and dedication. And she practiced like it was religion.
Other moms went to PTA meetings and hot yoga classes. Mine could throw a knife blindfolded and hit the same spot fifty times in a row.
She never trained me to become like her. A killer. She taught me how to throw a punch. How to get out of a grip. How to recognize when a situation was about to turn bad and positionmyself accordingly. How to use my surroundings as weapons when I didn’t have one.
“It’s as important as anything you learn in school,” she’d told me once, adjusting my stance while teaching me to break someone’s hold on my wrist. “Sometimes more. They don’t teach you survival in algebra II.”
I’d believed her.
I still did.
She crossed to the dummy, pulling the knife free with a twist, and when she turned back, she finally noticed me leaning against the railing, arms crossed, watching. Her lips curved into a genuine, warm smile full of love reserved only for me.
My brows lifted. “I take it your date didn’t go well?”
“On the contrary. We’re seeing each other again. Tomorrow, actually.”
“Then why the sudden grueling workout?” I gestured at the collection of knives laid out on the folding table nearby. “You only do the full routine when something’s bothering you.”
A glint sparkled in her eyes, and I knew before she even spoke that something cringy was going to come out of her mouth. “I had to burn off some…energy.”
I groaned. “If that’s what I think you’re implying”—I wrinkled my nose, holding up a hand—“gross. Spare me the details.”
She laughed, flipping the knife between her fingers. “You’re the one who brought it up. I was just going to say the date went well. Really well.”
“Mom.”
“What?” She was grinning now, enjoying my discomfort in the way only parents could. “I’m a grown woman. I’m allowed to have?—”