TWISTED ꜜ LOUIS PARTRIDGE

⟾ 8 | MARK WHAT'S MINE

He knew my tricks, I couldn't act my way out of this.

I was stuck.

"Louis, stop," I said, my voice starting to shake, "don't look at it."

His eyes were trained on the ink marked into my skin. "Ash, what is this?"

"It's nothing, leave it alone."

"Is that what I think it is?"

"For God's sake, I don't want to talk about it."

"Ash, talk to me."

"No."

"Ash—"

"I don't have to talk to you about anything!" I yelled, tears stinging in my eyes, "just because you think you know me, doesn't mean you know more than what I let you see, Partridge."

I felt violated.

I had every right to be, and even though it was clear his curiosity was a result of his own human-error, I suddenly felt nothing but pure anger towards him. He saw the one thing I hated most about myself, and it made me feel vulnerable.

Kneeing him in the stomach, I pushed him off of me, scrambling to my feet in panic.

"You knew I didn't want you to see it," I scowled, my whole mind flustered, "I made it bloody clear that day in the alley."

Louis didn't understand. "Ash, it's not bad, I just—"

"It's an insignia, Partridge," I spat out, "you don't have a right to tell me if it's bad or not, because you didn't have it marked on you before you could even walk."

The Ash insignia was a mark of ownership. It held power over the crime syndicate, and anyone who had it marked onto them belonged to my family. When I was born, my parents decided to compartmentalize the union, leaving only the three of us as pillars to our name.

But that came with a price.

When I turned 16, I was allowed a companion to keep me company while the rest of my family escaped to live their lives elsewhere. They brought in Millie that year, and she was all I had until a few days ago.

But even though my parents were elsewhere, they made sure to remind me that I was not my own person. I belong to them. I was a point in their plan, and an object of negotiation if they ever got themselves into trouble. I was never their daughter.

I was their meal-ticket.

"But the words," Louis said, slowly rising to his feet, "what do they mean?"

I glanced down at my wrist, staring at the three words. A triangle—three lines representing three family members—a flame, representing our name—and three words.

Representing an oath.

Together we burn.

"It means I belong to them," I spat out, my blood boiling with fury, "together we burn, until together we die."

It was a smudge on the skin I lived with. It was poison seeping into my veins and keeping me stuck to a family I didn't care for. An insignia reminding me that they had power over me, and if they decided they didn't want me around, they could kill me off without so much as a simple hesitation.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Louis asked, his voice fading.

"Because we barely know each other, Partridge," I said.

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"No."

"I wouldn't have told anyone."

He didn't get the point.

It didn't matter if it was on purpose or not, he was minimizing my pain just because he didn't understand. He didn't know what it was like to be kept locked away in a room, wondering if other kids existed. He didn't know what it was like to learn to love fire, because I constantly dreamed of setting my house ablaze just for a chance to escape.

He didn't know, and he didn't even try to.

"If it helps, I have a tattoo on the back of my neck," he said, lifting his hand to point out the spot on his nape, "all agents get their number marked when they get recruited."

"Are you being serious, Partridge?" I scowled.

"I just don't see how that's any different than yours."

"Oh, darling, there's a difference." I scowled.

He looked confused. "Care to tell me what it is?"

Taking a few steps back, I scanned the area for the trailer I had noticed half-an-hour ago. A soft glimmer of light told me what I was looking for was still lying there safe in sound. I ignored the boy at first, approaching my target with one thought on my mind.

"The difference," I began, bending down to pick up my knife, "is that you chose to get that tattoo, just like you chose to be an Agent."

I flipped the dagger in my hand.

"So since you think we're equals, I'll demonstrate for you," I spat out, "remember when you said this was our fight, and our fight only?"

He didn't say anything, staring at me with a sharp gaze.

"So, in a sense," I continued, "you're mine to kill."

Reeling my hand back, I chucked the blade towards him, watching as he bent backwards to dodge it, falling to the stone ground seconds after. The knife lodged itself into the rusting metal of a trailer behind him.

"Ash, calm down," he said, his eyes wide with panic.

I ignored him, planting the sole of my boot against his chest and shoving him back down. I pulled out my dagger with a sharp tug.

"Shut up," I spat out, staring down at him, "but since you're mine now, I guess that means I have every right to mark you as mine, hm?"

I shook his head. "No, you don't."

"Then why do you think my parents had a right to mark me?" I said, "don't you ever compare what I went through to your perfect, little life."

Bending down, grabbed his chin with my left hand, holding his head in place as I traced the blade of my knife against the skin of his cheek. It was only a tiny mark, barley even scratching the surface, but I knew it would scar. That's what I wanted it to do.

"Be grateful it's not your throat, Partridge," I frowned, standing back up, "and I've changed my mind."

He didn't say anything, so I continued.

"You only get three days left."

_

TWISTED merchandise is currently being designed, feel free to let me know here or on Instagram if you have any specific requests!