CHAPTER 8 – PROMISE

Tris Prior's POV

"I just want my friend back from time to time," Christina says as we walk down to breakfast the next morning. She lowers her voice a little as a teacher walks by, "The only reason I don't stay with Will every night is because of the school rules. They've got like a sixth sense with that—it's like they just know when you do that stuff."

"Yet, she still doesn't know about your night in the deserted classroom?" I ask. Christina shrugs.

"Well, not much I can do if she knows—I don't think it would bother me." I give her an incredulous look. "What? It wouldn't."

"You wouldn't be embarrassed if somebody knew you...did that?" She laughs slightly, shaking her head.

"Guess not." She yawns, "it's only natural—I mean, we're not the only teenagers who have ever done it. At this school, especially. What was that whole thing Four said the other night—about it being special? Has he really never done it?"

I blush.

"No," I say, "not that I know of. He says he hasn't."

"That's crazy," she gives me a strange look, "I find that so hard to believe."

"Why?"

"Do you even really look at your boyfriend, Tris?" Christina laughs, "Who wouldn't do it with him?"

"Don't get any ideas," I scoff.

"You don't need to worry about me, trust me," she gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, "It's just odd."

"How is it odd?" I ask, a little too defensively, "He just didn't find the right person."

"Before you," she rolls her eyes, "The way he looks at you, Tris. You have nothing to worry about." I feel my face get hot, but her words make me feel better. Even Uriah said it's an odd sight to see him as happy as he is—it's nice to be something so special to somebody. "And you can bet, I want to know every detail when it happens."

"You're ridiculous," I sigh, shaking my head.

"Hey, I told you about me and Will," she smirks, "the least you can do is tell me some details."

"Don't hold your breath," I tell her, "I don't think it'll be any time soon."

"You never know," she sings, laughing when I smack her hand away. We meet the others for breakfast, Marlene and Uriah sit side by side while Lynn sits across from them, next to Will. Christina slips into the seat on his other side, and I take the chair next to Uriah, across from Al.

"We were beginning to wonder where you guys were," Will says.

"Christina overslept," I say, earning a glare from my best friend. I realize she didn't come back quickly last night—so I glance over at Will, who hasn't directly looked at me once yet. For a moment, I wonder if Christina's sixth sense comment earlier meant something else.

"So Tris," Uriah speaks up then, "How's training going?"

"Rough," I sigh immediately, "Shauna is a great teacher... but I'm not sure I'm getting the hang of it just yet."

"Last I heard, you were doing just fine."

"Why did you ask me then?" I ask, giving him a curious look. He shrugs.

"I just wanted to know how you felt you were doing. Four is biased, he's too blinded."

"I doubt that," I laugh.

"That he's blinded by you?"

I shake my head, "No, that he's biased. He doesn't seem like he says things to please people." Uriah rolls his eyes.

"Okay, I get where you're coming from. But he's definitely playing some favoritism towards you."

"I'm training again tomorrow if you want to see for yourself," I tell him, "But I'm telling you now, I definitely won't be the best you've ever seen."

"Have some confidence," Uriah says, "you'll only get better if you believe you can. And you can bet I'll be there to watch—I still haven't gotten to teach you myself yet."

I smile. That is one way I hadn't looked at it before—if only every person in the world could have the same mind as him.

xXxXx

Pain surges through my jaw, and my teeth bite down hard—I blink away the tears forming in my eyes and stand back up, disoriented. "You alright?" Shauna asks, grabbing my shoulders to steady me. I can only manage a nod. "You gotta remember to block your face. You've got blocking everywhere else no problem."

"I know," I groan through my teeth. "Let's go again."

"Maybe you should take a break," she suggests, giving me an insistent look. "You can't master anything by straining yourself. It certainly won't improve any quicker that way."

"You sound like Four," I mutter. Shauna grins, mischievously.

"Who do you think I learned from?" I don't expect that answer; Tobias doesn't seem like he'd fight a girl—he shows too much respect towards women for that, from what I've experienced firsthand. He doesn't stick around today when Shauna and I go, but Uriah does. Tobias doesn't seem like a fighter much, unless he's provoked as Uriah said. His silence and observation are his two strongest weapons, I've noticed. Tobias is deft—meant and built for fighting, but rarely ever possesses the motivation to do so. "Surprised?"

"A little bit," I say with a nod.

"It took me weeks to convince him to actually hit me," Shauna smirks, "I couldn't learn properly until he did. He was afraid of hurting me, except now I can actually take a punch."

"He wouldn't hit you—?"

"I just mean, you know... when it came to practice fighting it was what I needed him to do, so I could learn."

"Can it be my turn?" Uriah asks, "You've been going at it for almost forty-five minutes. Let me train her, I have an idea." Shauna rolls her eyes, then nods and steps out of the ring.

"It's never a good thing when you or your brother get ideas," Shauna retorts. Uriah waves her off, and then faces me.

Uriah gives me an observational once-over, "I'm gonna try this: before I throw a punch, or a kick, I'm gonna yell 'block'. It's your responsibility to listen to me, and react—don't think, react. I'm gonna go in a pattern first, so you get a feel for it and know where to block. And when I think you've got it down, I'm gonna change it up; you'll have to watch my movements." I nod, and I notice Shauna looks intrigued by his idea now.

For a few minutes, we practice slow. After another couple of tries, we fall into a rhythm; he punches twice, and kicks once. I block each hit successfully, and then he changes it like he said—it's no longer a pattern, now Uriah throws all sorts of hits in, like in a real combat. I'm not as triumphant this time around, but I watch him better and I notice things. Unlike Lynn, he doesn't step before he punches; he throws his whole body into it, like a taut spring. The leg he kicks with, he steps back first to throw more force in.

Shauna's movements were stealth, quick, and powerful. Uriah's are no different here. I have been able to keep up with both of them now, but only for so long.

We go until my muscles ache with exertion, and my skin glistens with sweat. "You did much better today," Shauna praises, clapping me on the shoulder, "more work, more rest, more improvement, more results." She lists it like a mantra.

"Pretty soon you'll be ready to take on anything," Uriah exclaims, "tell Four he better watch out!" I roll my eyes, but I already can't wait to tell him how today went.

xXxXx

I don't see Tobias over the next few days; I focus on school and I know he is keeping himself busy. I decide I should spend some time with my brother—I miss how he would talk my ear off about the latest book, the latest lesson, or the latest everything. I have never found myself overwhelmed in our conversations.

I spot Caleb sitting by himself at one of the tables in the cafeteria, with two books open by his tray. I refrain from rolling my eyes, but allow myself to smile; his love for books, or knowledge in general, is unquenchable. I take the seat across from him, expecting him to glance up; he doesn't. I sigh, trying to gauge a reaction.

Nothing.

Then he says, "you know, sighing is a sign of discontent." I stare at him for a moment, unsure of how to respond. I know that. That's why I sighed in the first place.

"I'm aware," I finally say, leaning back in the chair, "you kept reading like I wasn't even here."

"When are you ever?" Caleb retorts with a slight smirk.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask him. I know what it means—He shrugs, closing his books.

"You're always sneaking off campus. The only times I see you is when you come up to me." I would think I am being too obvious, if it weren't in his nature to sometimes be obnoxiously over-observant. I frown for a moment.

"I'm not sneaking," I say defensively. Caleb gives me a skeptical look, and I sigh, "they let us go when classes are over. But you never leave the library, or the labs."

"Mom and dad would expect you to be doing the same." I feel a flash of heat run through me, disappearing as quickly as it came. My eyes narrow at him.

"Don't use them like a weapon against me," I say slowly, "I'm not as academically engrossed as you are. And my grades are fine." And I doubt they would want us to rot away in the library... school isn't just for learning.

"I'm not using them as a weapon," he says, staring at me, "I'm just saying that maybe you should be more focused. That's all, Beatrice." I look down, pushing my hair out of my face. When I sat down, I expected a much nicer turn of events than this.

"We're not wired the same, Caleb." I shake my head at him, "I would think you of all people would know that." He nods, but like he's agreeing with my first statement not with my second.

"I do know that," he replies quietly, "but I really think you should."

"Did they say anything about this?" I ask, "when they visited?" He looks reluctant to answer at first, then nods once.

"Dad did." I bite my lip so hard, I feel a pinch.

"What did you tell him?"

Caleb looks down, "not the truth." I feel the all too familiar guilt, chiseling at the back of my mind. I know how much he hates lying—lying in general—but it's worse when it comes to our parents. But there are secrets I've kept from them, for him, as well; we may hate keeping secrets, but sometimes it's the bond that brings Caleb and me closer. Because we stick together. And because despite how much we dislike keeping them out of the loop, we are brother and sister. It's human nature. Caleb sucks in a breath, looking me in the eye, "but if I'm going to keep lying for you, at least for right now, I need to know more than what you've told me. I can't keep making things up—I might slip up, and they will find out."

The back of my neck feels warm. I rub it to ease the tension, and sigh. I know they will; hopefully it'll be me telling them the truth instead of them finding out. I'd rather they be disappointed when I tell them, than disappointed when they find it out from someone else. "What do you need to know?" I ask reluctantly. He contemplates his questions—which scares me. Because I do not know if I will be able to answer them as honestly as he needs me too. I don't know the extent of his curiosity.

"Where did you get those bruises?" He asks, concerned, "I didn't notice them before." I almost laugh at the audacity of it all; the first thing he hasn't noticed about me—but this is not a laughing matter.

"One of my friends," I start, "she's training me. Self-defense stuff." I speak as convincingly as I can, and he seems to believe me. Technically I am not lying. I realize then just how much I have missed him. He is still my brother, still willing to protect me. Even if that means lying a little for me. I feel like we have developed our own lives here, because he is so immersed in school, and I am so immersed elsewhere.

"Where do you go when you leave the campus?"

"It's a place called the Pit," I answer, twisting my fingers together in front of me, "it's... different."

"Doesn't sound like my kind of place," he says, with a small smile. I feel a laugh bubble up in my throat, and nod.

"I didn't think so when Christina first brought me there," I say. But there was a sort of magnetic pull that told me otherwise.

"Who are your friends?" Caleb asks.

"Christina, Will, Al and Lynn. Uriah and Marlene." I say, biting my lip, "and Four. Mom knows about them already."

"Four?" He asks, giving me a quizzical look. I nod, but otherwise do not comment. He continues, "So if I mention any of them, do you think I'll sound more believable?"

"Yes," I nod, "especially if you mention Christina."

"Okay." He looks more at ease, "You have been going to your classes, right?"

"Of course, Caleb," I say quickly, "Just because I hang out with them a lot doesn't mean I skip."

"Okay. Good..." he relaxes more, then asks, "What's Four like? I'm interested to know how he got a number for a name." My throat goes dry for a moment—maybe it is now or never.

"It's just a nickname. But he's a friend..." I start, looking anywhere but Caleb's face. I hate that he has always been able to read my mind, whether I am looking at him or not.

"A friend?" He's not accusing, though his tone is questioning. Maybe I'm just afraid he is going to turn all overbearingly protective of me. I know it's only because I am still his little sister. "Like a boyfriend?" That word weighs on my shoulders the moment he says it. I nod. Caleb scowls slightly, looking down at the table, and then at me.

"Are you gonna tell mom and dad?" I have lost track of how often Caleb asks me this; he asks it like we don't keep secrets from them. I recall seeing him sitting with a girl a few weeks ago, I noticed it in passing, but it was a rare sight.

"What about you and that girl who sat with you a few weeks ago?" I ask, trying to change the subject before my face reddens anymore.

"She's just a friend," he says, defensively. He is lying—or at least, he wishes he was, by the disappointment in his voice. Maybe I shouldn't have brought her up—did she reject him?

"And mom knows about him," I add quietly, "I already told her. While you and dad walked around the campus that day." I see his expression soften some.

"But dad doesn't," he figures. I shake my head, "Why didn't you tell me at least?"

"Because you would have probably scolded me," I mutter, "and you'd probably want to meet him so you could play big brother." I know that I am a little out of line with the accusation, but I knew how this would play out when I finally told him. Caleb is very protective, sometimes a little too much. He frowns.

"Well, I do want to meet him," he says firmly. I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the beginning of a headache starting. "Do you have any classes with him?" I'm starting to believe telling him I have a boyfriend wasn't the hardest part—telling him said boyfriend no longer goes to this school, is.

"Er...no," I say, tightening my grip on the chair. For a moment, I think that the plastic bends in my hands but it goes back into place when I release it. "He...doesn't...he's no longer a student here." His suspicious stare becomes one of surprise.

"What does that mean—?"

"—he's nineteen, Caleb," I answer quickly, "he finished school. I promise, he's not a drop-out, or some super older guy..."

"Beatrice—,"

"—Caleb, please," I beg desperately. Caleb makes a discontented sound, between a groan of irritation and a sigh. "Don't make such a big deal..."

"What has gotten into you?" He asks, looking tired. "Does mom know how old he is?"

"Yes," I say, "I wasn't not going to tell her that. Honestly, Caleb... I am going to be eighteen pretty soon, just like you. As of right now, it's only a two year difference—and..." I feel my face get hot, and I dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. I don't finish that thought. I have lost track of how many times, and how many people, I have had this unnecessary conversation with. I do not want my brother mixed in with the statistic.

Caleb looks at the table uncomfortably, then sighs, "...fine. But I still want to meet him." I nod, reluctantly. At least I can do that.

"How did you do on your exams?" That's it? I breathe a silent sigh of relief. Maybe because I had told him mom already knows, he thinks he won't need to know much else.

"I passed," I say simply. I did, but I don't really remember. I know Caleb passed with all A's.

"That's it?" He asks with a chuckle. I shrug.

"Do you really want to talk about school?" I ask. Then I realize, of course he does... when does he not?

"I guess not," he agrees. Caleb sighs, "I feel like we never see each other—I don't really know what to talk about with you."

"Well you're always here," I say. "I wouldn't want to take you away from school work."

"I have friends too, you know," he says, rolling his eyes, "they just happen to prefer hanging out around books rather than whatever it is your friends are into." I know he means well, and I don't question his interests, but I can't help wondering how anybody could find studying for hours as anything fun.

"I've never met any of them," I say.

"I've never met any of yours, either," he retorts. He changes the subject then, "Mom and dad called the other night."

"Fair enough." I almost want to tell him more about Tobias, but he is not Christina. I feel like he won't get it—sometimes I feel like Caleb is too invested in books to notice girls, and he just wouldn't understand my relationship. "What did you, mom, and dad talk about? When they called?"

"They were just checking up on us," Caleb says, "Mom misses us a lot, I think she said that three or four times. Dad wanted to know how school was going. I had to tell him I didn't really know about you, but Ms. Matthews reassured him you were doing just fine."

"That was nice of her," I say.

"Were you out with them the other night, at that place you always go, when she was looking for you?" Caleb asks, then.

"The pit," I answer, "and yes, I think so. You didn't tell her about it, right?" I know Caleb would only be trying to help if he did mention it, but most of us are underage and I know my parents wouldn't like to hear that I was going to such a place. My mother told me she trusted me, and I want her to. Caleb shakes his head.

"I figured you didn't want me snitching on you," he says sheepishly, "I haven't told mom or dad about your tattoo, either. Are you ever going to tell them about that?" I know it peaks just out of the top of my shirt; he eyes it, wearily for a moment.

"Uh, maybe," I reply carefully. I am grateful he hasn't blurted about that, though. "Thank you. I'd rather they hear about it from me."

"I know, Beatrice," he nods. We sit in silence for a moment, Caleb looks over his books again. I know if I want to introduce Caleb to my friends, I should give him the opportunity to introduce me to his, too.

Briefly, I wonder how I will get Caleb and Tobias in the same place at the same time. I doubt I could drag Caleb to the Pit with us. I don't know if I could bring Tobias here, though. I may have to figure that out with him.

"So," I start, "when do I get to meet your friends?"

xXxXx

The first fighter of the night is out already. She tries to push herself back up, but Peter steps on the small of her back, hard, and keeps her down. Blood seeps into her white shirt, and drips down her lips, and chin. Eric has her dragged out before she can stand back up. Peter stands, victorious, with his ego inflated and his bravado as arrogant as ever.

He has yet to lose these last few fights—he took Lynn out a few days ago; she now scowls, and sulks all day long, planning her revenge against him. I can't imagine how she's feeling.

"I liked him better when he could barely walk straight," Uriah says, shaking his head, "he's back to his old self now."

"Just what we needed," I mutter sarcastically.

"I'd love to see him get his ass kicked again," he replies, "for Lynn." I nod. Eric picks a scrawny looking boy as Peter's next opponent; he's picking them deliberately, to keep Peter in the number one spot. But Lynn is not weak—Peter was just a better opponent this time.

Peter is ruthless on this poor boy—I think his name is Drew. He attempts to get hits in, left and right, though I'm quite impressed; he's managed to stay up, and alert for well over ten minutes. But Peter gets the final uppercut to the underside of his jaw, and he's down. His head hits the ground, hard, and he winces before his eyes close and his body slumps.

If I didn't know any better, I would assume he was dead.

But he groans in pain when he's picked up and carried from the ring. Eric looks over the crowd, weighing his options. Lynn is staring back, and I know she wants Eric to pick her.

He doesn't even look at her. Eric looks between me and Uriah—I know he would pick me, because of what happened with Four, but I'm not entirely sure why he'd pick Uriah.

He and Peter share a brief glance, all too knowing, and then Eric looks right back to me.

My body goes cold. Eric points to me, and the boisterous cheers and howls erupt all around me. But they're drowned out, like we're in a tunnel, by the loud rush of adrenaline in my bloodstream, echoing in my ears.

I don't want to fight Peter. Anyone but Peter. I'll even fight Lynn, and give her spot back. I'll even fight Molly. Anyone but Peter!

Uriah stands in front of me, like a wall of protection, but then Peter gives me a scornful look and I know he thinks I'm a coward. But then I think of how I see him, and he's the real coward. I think of Lynn, and how self-resentful she is that she lost to him. I don't have to fight Peter, but I will.

I shake my hands out, the nerves rolling like waves through me. I don't think about if I lose; I don't think I'll win, either. But I can at least try to.

My muscles are no longer rigid, I find the will in myself to move forward. We stand beneath the light that illuminates our stage, and position myself. Hopefully Shauna and Uriah's training have done me well—this is not solely a test of strength; strength is a perk. This is a test of skill, and reactivity. I have to watch him, and I have to look for my way in.

"Aw. You look like you're about to cry, Stiff," Peter taunts, "I might go easier on you if you cry." Fat chance. I bite my tongue; if I respond, it'll only egg him on.

He almost catches me, unprepared. His first punch hits my shoulder, right on a sore muscle and the groan is out before I can hide it. Peter smirks, an ugly, evil grin, and the next hit is directed toward my face; I don't block him in time, and his knuckles connect with my jaw.

Focus. Tears blur my vision, and I blink them away as quickly as I can. I see Peter's outline pull back again, and this time I do block just in time to avoid another hit to the face. Where his fist connected with my arm, the skin stings.

He sends another uppercut directly after. I block it, though just barely. His knuckles graze my cheekbone, but I still feel pain. Peter lets out a frustrated growl, and I know it's because I'm still standing. His knee jerks up, hitting the bend in my waist. It sends a stab of agony through my body, and I'm thrown sideways, almost off my feet.

I can't breathe. I lost all air from that hit, and I struggle to regain it. I swing forward, but my fist hits air and then his fingers wrap around my wrist, roughly. I want to recoil the moment he touches me, disgusted by his calloused, unkind hands. Peter's grip on my arm gives him all the power he needs, and he yanks me forward. I am falling, and a sharp pain shoots through my shoulder.

I am losing.

I want to give up. I can't beat Peter—it might not be impossible, but right now it surely feels like it. I don't want to get back up, I want this fight to end.

I stay down.

And that is my mistake. Because Peter throws a kick to the side of my head and blackness eats away at the corners of my vision. My head throbs, it feels heavy. I see Peter pull back once more, and another kick connects with my head. This time, he's kicked my nose. I feel warmth trickle down my face, and then I taste blood.

Blackness consumes me, and I don't try to stay awake.

xxxxx

I don't know how long I've been out for, or what Peter may have done after I blacked out. I don't think I want to know. I only remember, vaguely, being dragged out of the ring. My body feels heavy, and limp; I cannot move. There is a large ice pack at my side, by my ribs where I was kicked, and a coldness seeps into the side of my head and jaw.

Pain rushes through my body as I try to sit up, but I am stopped by two large, gentle hands. Uh oh... I turn my head to see Tobias sitting beside me, with a deep scowl on his face.

My heart leaps in my throat—I don't think I want to know what he's thinking.

His eyes look angry, but I can't tell if it's directed towards me, or the current status of my situation. The silence is deafening. I turn away from him, and look up at the ceiling. My teeth bite down on my lip, and I wince at the sting; a small whimper escapes my throat.

"How long have I been out?" I ask. My voice is scratchy, and hoarse; my throat is dry.

"A few hours," he answers, not looking at me. Maybe he is mad at me. His thumb strokes my cheekbone, idly. I wince, and he drops his hand immediately. "Eric has a lot of nerve..."

"That had nothing to do with you fighti—,"

"—It didn't?" Tobias asks, terse. I don't want to think their fight caused this, but I know that's exactly what Tobias is thinking. Eric wants to hurt him, I know that. And the strongest way to hurt Tobias is to hurt him emotionally. One way is getting to me.

"I think he and Peter had this planned beforehand," I reply, keeping my voice low.

"What makes you say that?"

"Peter hates me. Maybe there was no reason other than to hurt us." It hurts to shrug, and when I do I regret it. I realize I must sound ridiculous—Peter may need no reason, but Eric seems like he has his reasons.

"Why didn't you just stay back?" He asks, shaking his head slowly, "you wouldn't be here right now. You wouldn't be in pain...you wouldn't have bruises, or cuts."

"Well, I do," I say, more firmly than I mean to, "and it's over with. I could have chosen to be a coward, or to be a fighter."

"Sometimes there's more bravery in walking away, Tris," Tobias argues, staring at me so intently my stomach twists under his gaze. His thumb brushes across my lip, over the split. His touch stings the wound, despite how gentle he tries to be, and I realize he's right.

I sigh, "you're right." He stares at me, blankly, for a few seconds, but then the corners of his lips twitch.

"You're actually agreeing with me?"

"I don't have the energy to argue with you anymore tonight," I answer, defeated. Tobias nods once, and we sit in silence; his fingers brush my hair away from my face, and their coolness soothes my headache. He presses his lips to my temple, softly, and he sighs against my skin.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, "I shouldn't be angry with you. This wasn't your fault."

"I tried to remember everything Shauna and Uriah taught me..." I say, stifling a sob caught in my throat. I will not cry. "But Peter was too fast."

"Just rest, Tris," Tobias says.

"Can we go back to your apartment, please?" I ask, "I don't want to stay here all night." I don't want Peter, or Eric to find me. I don't think Eric would do anything, but I know Peter would.

"Can you stand up?"

I try, but the blood rushes in my ears and I feel dizzy. Before I can respond, Tobias lifts me into his arms easily, and carries me back to his place. I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

xXxXx

When I observe the damage Peter has done, the next morning, I barely recognize myself. There is a large, blueish, purple bruise that runs from the top of my cheekbone, down to my jawline. The split in my lip looks bigger than it feels.

My face is swollen, around my nose where he kicked me. There's a bump on the back of my head from the first kick.

Tobias stands behind me, in the doorway of the bathroom, frowning. Our eyes meet in the mirror for a moment, before I look away. "It's not that bad," I say.

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" He asks. I don't know. I sigh, and return the ice pack to my face. The cold burns my skin, but it numbs it enough that I can barely feel it after a few seconds. I turn towards him, meeting his eyes.

"Myself, probably," I answer flatly. "It looks bad, doesn't it?"

Tobias shrugs, and brings his hand up to touch my face, careful to avoid the bruise. "Well, I've seen worse... but it's pretty bad. You're lucky he didn't break your nose..." I nod, but the motion hurts my head. "I don't like seeing you hurt. Nobody should ever touch you like that," his voice is low, and he speaks slowly.

"It'll heal," I say quietly.

"And when it does, do you plan on fighting Peter again?" The edge in his voice is unwavering. "Do you plan on showing him that he can do this again?"

"I'm not a child," I tell him. "Don't scold me like I am one—!"

He speaks, evenly, "—Do you remember what I told you, after the incident with Eric? About my mother?"

I swallow my anger, "Of course I do."

"I watched my mother get hurt, at the hands of my own father, Tris. I've seen my mother bleed, almost to the point where I didn't think it'd ever stop. My father was supposed to love my mother, not abuse her. I saw the same compulsion in Peter's expression, hitting you, that my father had every time he beat my mother, or even me. My father was supposed to be a man, not a monster—he's a coward, just like Peter. I know you can handle yourself, and I'm glad you had some knowledge on fighting... but when I told you last night there's more bravery in walking away, I wasn't trying to tell you what you should have done differently. I was trying to tell you that you don't have to be fighter, even if you're provoked. I know Peter is an awful person... I know I fought Eric because he provoked me—that was my mistake, and look where it got us now. I just didn't want to see you get hurt. You can be strong and brave in different ways..."

My heart throbs, painfully, in my chest. It should have been obvious—he cares about me, like he cared about his mother. And here, I nearly accused him of having no reason for his anger because I am too prideful to admit my vulnerabilities.

My teeth dig into my lip, "I'm sorry," I say. "I hadn't thought about that." Tobias nods, but not in a condescending way. We stand quietly for a few moments, before Tobias speaks up.

"The thing I hate the most, is this feeling like I expect everybody to understand it," He says sadly. In a way, I understand why he feels like that. We come from different worlds; I was raised by two parents, who set good examples. He was raised by two parents, and then one, who did not. It was his normal growing up—he expects everyone to see the bad in people as easily as he does. I can't imagine that war inside his head.

"I won't fight Peter again," I tell him. I won't risk hurting him, or myself, like this again.

"I can't stop you if you do."

"But I won't," I shake my head, "I promise."

xXxXx

Tobias Eaton's POV

"She's tough as nails," Shauna says, walking into the control room with sweat lining her forehead, "I swear, she just wants to keep practicing. I finally got her to take a break."

"First thing you'll ever learn about her..." I smirk, handing the control panel to Zeke. He looks like a child on Christmas, and instantly begins flipping through footage. "How'd you get her to stop?"

"Uriah finally tired her out," she answers, shaking her head, "He went easy on her, but she took enough hits from me today—I told her she was gonna strain herself if we kept going," Shauna smirks then, and says, "she told me I sounded just like you, Four." I raise an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"I told her she should take a break, and that there was no way she would master anything by straining herself. That she wouldn't improve any quicker, and she said I sounded just like you." Zeke bursts out laughing behind me, and manages to duck when I swing my arm back at him.

"You basically told her what I told you three years ago," I say. Shauna nods, smirking.

"I told her that, too."

"What else, about me, did you tell her?" I ask.

"That's all," she replies, but she says it too casually and I find it hard to believe her. I feel like she told Tris more than she is letting on—I should pry the answers out of her, but she will know exactly what I'm doing. I know Shauna, and she would be giving away more, indirectly, if she had told Tris something she didn't need to know. I decide I'll let it go, for just this once.

"You do know that all of this training her is a little pointless, right?" I ask after a moment, "she's not going to be fighting anybody."

"Look, Four—I get it, you have some weird no-violence policy..." ironic, considering what recently occurred with Eric, though I understand what she is saying, "but I think that's up to Tris to decide if she wants to fight somebody or not. I know you don't want to see her get hurt, but this chivalrous attitude of yours can be kind of insulting sometimes." I know she means well; Shauna has always been straightforward with me, but I can't help feeling a bit bruised.

Her point behind it, however—it makes me suspect that Tris wants to fight—that's what is bothering me.

I sigh, "I'm not saying that she's not capable of taking somebody on. I know she is... but—," you don't get it, I want to tell her. Shauna sees this as me saying I don't think girls can fight. I know girls can—I've seen it plenty of times—but Tris is too good; people don't fight fair here, they fight dirty and they fight mercilessly. "I am all for her learning this as a way of protecting herself," I say, slowly, "but I will not put up with watching her go into fights, and getting hurt as some form of an adrenaline rush. You know how Eric picks these fights; I don't want Tris getting her head kicked in, or her teeth knocked out." Shauna doesn't comment after that and I know I've made myself clear.

xXxXx

That night, I jog down to the pier to clear my mind. Breathing in the cold air feels like a new breath every time.

I can see my breath, coming out in large puffs in front of my face beneath the lights. I stop when I reach the end, allowing myself to catch my breath. My hands are frozen and numb, and shoving them into my pockets for warmth is not working.

The cold doesn't bother me much, but my hands are already rough enough. Though despite the wind, it's actually not the coldest it could be. November nights are usually always my favorite, because sometimes they are just the right amount of cold—other times, they're merely just chilly.

The conversation with Shauna is still fresh in my mind. I am worried that Tris plans to fight, and that I won't be there to talk her out of it, or at least try to. I don't want to stop her, if it's something she wants to do, but I also refuse to see her get hurt. I can't promise that I won't try to stop her.

I am also afraid that if I confront her with my suspicions, that she won't be straightforward with me. But I don't doubt Tris, or think that she is not trustworthy—I just want my thoughts to be proven wrong.

xxxxx

"You're supposed to be in controls," Tori says to me as I stroll into the tattoo parlor the next afternoon. I give her a winning smile and she rolls her eyes, "what?"

I shrug, "there's nothing to do there right now—and besides, Zeke's got it covered."

"It's not supposed to be fun, it's supposed to keep you and Eric from killing each other," she replies, shaking her head.

"Eric hardly checks," I say, "I can't stay here for a few?" Tori gives me a stern look, though I know she's only faking it; she doesn't mind me. "Where is he anyway?" I ask.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't. But I don't want to run into him on the way back," Tori looks unconvinced, but she pulls an old needle off the gun in her hand and replaces it with a new one before answering me.

She shrugs, and says, "he's most likely around the main area. If not, then he's probably out looking for fighters for tonight."

"He's got fights going tonight?" Tori nods, with an expression that says it should be obvious. I might be able to lead Tris away—if Tori will let me off controls for the rest of the day. I haven't seen her in the last couple of days, so I don't know how she's been with Shauna since last time. It's worth a shot, "mind if we skip out on watch later?"

"Why?" So I can distract Tris, that's why. Zeke can do whatever he wants. But I don't say that.

"Tori, I promise we will stay in controls for the rest of the day and for the rest of the week if you can just give us tonight off?" I plead. She stares at me, blankly, for a few moments, before sighing loudly.

"Fine," she answers, "but on one condition: you stay as far away from Eric as possible. I am not cleaning up his blood again."

"You're the best," I call out, grinning, before I leave the tattoo parlor. I don't catch what she mutters, I am too busy thinking of a way to keep Tris away from the fights tonight.

When I get back to the control room, my thoughts are solid. Tris will stay with me, and nowhere near the fights. I see the top of Zeke's head just above one of the monitors. He asks, "where did you go?"

"I got us the night off," I say, sitting down in the chair across from him.

"Really?" His expression lights up, and the screens are forgotten, "what's the catch?"

"We finish working in here today, and for the rest of the week." I answer, pulling a camera screen up. I hear him sigh.

"So basically, after tonight, it's right back to the same old same old." I nod. He sits up, cracking his knuckles, and asks, "Why did you ask for tonight off, exactly?"

"Eric's got fights going tonight, and I want to get Tris away from them," I mutter.

"You think she's gonna want to fight?"

I shrug, sighing, "I don't know. But she's training with Shauna again today, and part of me thinks she might want to. I don't know who Eric's picked to fight, but if it's that boy, Peter again, I think she'll try to."

"Can't you just talk her out of it?"

"Believe me, I've tried to talk her out of just training," I scowl. I pull the footage up from the training room, just in time to watch Tris get Shauna's knee in her ribs. I feel a slight headache starting behind my eyes. She is improving, at least, but she is still weak. "But she can be stubborn."

"Well, maybe your instincts are wrong," Zeke shrugs, "maybe you're getting paranoid for no reason." It's not an unreasonable conclusion, but it's not likely either. I am not usually paranoid for no reason. "You heard what Shauna said the other day—she's teaching her how to protect herself, not fight somebody."

"I know," I say wearily.

"Relax man, you'll be down there tonight and if Eric tries to pull anything, we'll stop it."

"I hope so."

xXxXx

Zeke and I join a few of his friends by the chasm; most of them have already been drinking for a little while now. I pass up the drink they hand me, and I glance around the pit, looking for Tris. My nerves are running high tonight—I know Eric has already seen me down here, and he's not happy about it.

I catch his glares every couple of minutes or so.

"You look wound up," Tori says, coming up beside me. I shrug.

"Do I?"

"Yes," she says, blunt. "Is it because of Eric?"

"Something like that," I tell her. I don't want to tell her my reason for being down here—I'll let her think it's because of Eric. I don't plan on fighting him tonight, but if he hurts Tris, I break my promise to Tori. Oh well...

"Are you looking for Tris?" She asks me, as if reading my mind. I nod. "She and Uriah were up front somewhere." Of course they were

"—Get him out of here!" Eric orders his lackeys, scanning the crowds for a new opponent. I was right about one thing, Peter is his champion tonight. I start frantically following Eric's eyes, but I don't see Tris anywhere. She is too short, and I am behind the crowd.

"Where up front?" I ask Tori then. Tori shrugs. But it's too late—I see a blonde head standing in the ring, across from Peter. He looks at her like a wild animal, about to kill its prey. This is not good. I push through people quickly, ignoring their protests and shoves.

He says something to her, but I am too far away to hear over the noise. She looks calm on the surface, but I notice her hands shake. Peter throws the first punch, hitting her shoulder. Tris doesn't see his next move, and Peter's fist connects with her jaw.

Her eyes well up with tears, I can see them glow under the light above them. Peter hits her again, in the same place. She struggles to block the next uppercut, but manages to stop him before his hands connects. Peter throws a knee into her side.

Tris staggers back a few feet, I am almost close enough to grab her. If I could just get through one more row—

She swings at him, missing by an inch, but Peter is too fast. He grabs her wrist, and pulls her toward him, sending her crashing into the mat.

Tris doesn't get back up—she doesn't even try to stand. I yell for her to move, to get out of his way, but she can't hear me. Peter kicks the side of her head, and all I feel is rage and revenge. I want to hurt Peter, bad—I could kill him.

Again, another kick. But this time, Peter kicks her nose and blood trickles down her skin like marble. Her eyes close, and I find myself running towards Peter now. I only see her blood, and then Peter's face.

I stand between them, giving Peter a murderous stare. He cowers back a step, and I pick Tris up in my arms. I don't care about the people watching, the people booing me for stepping in. I don't care about Eric, or Peter... I don't care about Tori's one condition.

If given the chances, I would kill them both.

Zeke follows me out of the ring, and I look down at Tris. There is so much blood on her face, I don't know where she is hurt more. Her nose could be broken—she could have a concussion. She will be black and blue tomorrow, that much I am sure about.

She is breathing, at least.

I don't realize that I am being trailed, until Tori brings a cart full of medical supplies over to me as I lay Tris down on one of the cots. "I'll kill him," I spit out, feeling the anger boil up inside me again.

"You are gonna focus on her right now," Tori says firmly, giving me a hard look. "You are not going after him." I want to contradict her; tell her that once I am finished cleaning Tris up, that I am going back out there but the venom coursing through my veins will only cause me to yell at her right now. I bite my tongue, and pull a wet rag out of the bowl on the tray.

"I will deal with Eric," she says stern. "I told you, I don't want any more fights between you two. Eric will lose—take care of her." I hear Tori's footsteps get quieter and quieter, until I am sure it is only me and Tris in here now.

I focus on her, feeling myself calm down a little so that I can be as gentle as possible. I start on the blood that's beginning to dry on her chest, and neck. It washes away, clinging to the rag, although it still stains her skin.

I have to hold her head still, to clean her jaw and her nose. I am careful, not holding too tightly in case she has any breaks. The blood masked most of the bruises forming on her face; they've already started swelling.

Her breaths are still slow; they are warm, ghosting across the backs of my hands. Even in her comatose state, she lets out a weak, gurgling cough and it sounds painful, like it's choking her. Her skin is pale, paler than usual; she almost looks transparent. My fingers automatically smooth her hair back, and I try to get most of the blood out of the ends.

I know I won't be able to clean the blood out of her shirt, now that it's seeped into the fabric. It'll be a miracle if she can later on. I work on her hands next; they are not split open, she never got a strong enough hit in, but they are caked in blood from when she clutched at her jaw. It's hard to get the blood out from between the crevices and creases of her palms, but I get the majority of it out at least.

Peter's vicious grip left red marks around her wrist; the skin bubbles, like she was scratched and I imagine maybe she was. I remember that he kneed her ribs, so as carefully as I can, I move her arm aside and lift the bottom of her shirt to see the harm done. Her ribs jut out with each breath, and four or five of them already begin to discolor. I put her shirt back down.

I grab the ice packs from the cooler on the bottom of the cart and place one against her side, and another beneath her chin, with a towel to keep her skin from getting too cold. The last ice pack I place on the pillow beside her head, and turn her head carefully toward it.

My fingers find the smooth skin of her wrist and I can feel the pulse, a little stronger, there and I see the rise and fall of her chest more prominent now. I toss all of the stained rags back into the bowl, now full of pink water, and sit down beside the cot. Now she looks like she could be sleeping, but the blueish-purple tint forming along her jaw is beginning to show.

I see a split by her eye, already beginning to scab over. Most of the blood came from hits to her mouth, and her nose. I feel anger course through me again, and I stand up, giving Tris a final once-over.

Her blood has already set in the fabric of my shirt, and I feel nauseas for a minute, before I swallow back bile and stalk out of the infirmary. I will come back for her, but for now she is safe. I know where I am going, and I have figured out what I am going to say.

Another fight—two new opponents this time—is starting. I see Eric, and then I see red. When he spots me, storming over to him the corners of his lips turn up in a remorseless smirk.

"What the hell are you playing at?" I demand, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. He stares me down, prying at my hand to break free. He's lucky my fingers aren't around his throat right now. I am screaming at him in the next moment, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Pitting defenseless people up against some ruthless asshole?"

Eric flashes an ugly, wicked grin and says, "She wasn't backing down. You could have stopped her... but then you would have looked like dear old dad. Just as demanding... just as controlling. You wouldn't want that, would you, Tobias?" His voice is low, menacing. He knows where to hit me; the weakest parts of me, and unfortunately they are in his knowledge.

The main fight is forgotten, all eyes are on us now.

I won't fight him, because that's what he wants. For someone who actually has a brain, he doesn't use it very often. I would beat him again—that's been the outcome for as long as I can remember. He just wants a reaction; I have given him enough just from confronting him now. I want to beat him senseless, but I withhold.

I release his shirt, roughly, knocking him back a few steps. He gives me a dirty look, between a glare and what looks like he's murdered me inside his head a dozen ways.

"Watch yourself," he spits through clenched teeth. I feel a tug on my arm, and I turn to see Tori glaring at the both of us. I know she's more pissed off with me than Eric, but I honestly don't care. Eric needs to learn to keep himself in line—if we were in a different setting, different situation, with different consequences, he would have been shot by now for insubordination.

And I think I would gladly do the honors.

"I am not gonna tell you again, Four," Tori hisses; her grip on my arm hurts, and it's enough to clear my head for a moment, "leave it alone. You're only adding to his fire." I refuse to show submission, because Eric hasn't looked away yet either. But he fixes the collar of his shirt and turns away from me.

"I'm sorry, Tori..." I tell her, shaking my hands out.

"Walk away, Four," she says quietly, "stay away from here for the rest of the night. Make sure Tris is okay. That's what's important to you, not getting even with Eric." I know she is right, so I don't argue with her.

xXxXx

It is just past midnight when Tris stirs awake. She tries to sit up, but right now she just needs to rest. I keep my grip as light as possible, and keep her down on the cot.

Her lip trembles, and she looks up at the ceiling, as if she's willing her tears to go away. Maybe she is.

"How long have I been out?" She asks, her voice manages a whisper.

"A few hours," I say, staring absentmindedly at the blanket covering half her body. I am still angry, and thinking of ways to hurt Eric. But I come up empty—I don't really want to hurt him, for my sake. Tris flinches under my touch, I must have hurt her, and it breaks me from my haze. I drop my hand immediately.

"Eric has a lot of nerve..."

"That had nothing to do with you fighti—,"

"—It didn't?" I snap, and I instantly regret it when I see the look on her face. She looks like she might yell, or cry.

"I think he and Peter had this planned beforehand," she finally says, keeping her voice low. I don't like when she talks to me like this—like she's scolding me somehow. But I deserve it for snapping at her, the last thing she needs is my anger.

"What makes you say that?" I ask.

"Peter hates me. Maybe there was no reason other than to hurt us." She shrugs, and then whimpers.

"Why didn't you just stay back?" I shake my head, and I realize I sound like I'm scolding her now, "you wouldn't be here right now. You wouldn't be in pain...you wouldn't have bruises, or cuts."

"Well, I do," she retorts, "and it's over with. I could have chosen to be a coward, or to be a fighter."

"Sometimes there's more bravery in walking away, Tris," I argue, looking her over now that she is awake. I can find out where else she is hurt, by the way her face contorts when she moves too fast. I brush my thumb along the cut on her lip. It is swollen, but I try to focus on her breaths fanning across my skin rather than the blood rushing to her bruises.

Tris sighs, "you're right." I almost laugh, but now is not the time. I clear my throat.

"You're actually agreeing with me?"

"I don't have the energy to argue with you anymore tonight," She says, shaking her head. I can be an asshole, especially at the wrong times. I shouldn't be making a joke while there are still things we need to discuss. She doesn't talk to me, and I feel anxious as the silence grows longer. I brush her hair to the side to keep my hands from shaking, and I kiss her forehead, lingering there for a few moments.

"I'm sorry," I say lightly, "I shouldn't be angry with you. This wasn't your fault..."

"I tried to remember everything Shauna and Uriah taught me..." Her voice breaks, but she holds back her tears. I wish she would cry, instead of holding it all in. She doesn't always need to be so strong, or put together, in front of me. I think it's a little late for that right now, and I wouldn't expect her to be. She continues, "But Peter was too fast."

"Just rest, Tris," I insist, giving her hand a light squeeze. I don't want to leave her here alone, but I don't want to walk her back to the school in this condition either. I would stay by her side all night if that's what she wanted. She voices the idea before I do...

"Can we go back to your apartment, please?" Tris asks, glancing around the infirmary. She looks scared for half of a second, and I wonder if she's afraid of Eric, or Peter, finding her. "I don't want to stay here all night."

"Can you stand up?" I ask her. She tries to lift herself up, but her arms barely help and she stumbles back. I pick her up easily, her legs drape over my arm while my other arm supports her neck. I carry her back to my place, and I lay her down carefully.

She is already asleep before I lay down beside her. I don't sleep right away. My head is too loud, and as I watch her, my thoughts grow louder.

To say I never thought tonight would happen would be a lie. I knew eventually it might, but I was hoping to do everything I could to prevent this. Her skin was beautiful and smooth, and to me it still is—but right now, all I see it as purple and blue and bumps across her face. Peter is a monster.

I am just glad that now she is sleeping, and no longer beaten unconscious.

I am more relieved that nothing seems to be broken, and that once her bruises are gone, she will look normal again. She will look like the Tris I love.

I can admit that now, to myself, in the safety of my apartment. I do love her, and I assume that that is why I would be willing to do anything to keep her safe. Even if I have a few selfish reasons behind it—I want to protect her. I won't let Peter, or Eric, do this again.

xxxxx

I stir awake when the mattress shifts and I see Tris struggle to stand. She picks up one of the ice packs as she rises and holds her side, her fingers curl around her waist to stop the pain and she walks around the bed. I throw the blanket off my body to get up, and she sighs, "you don't need to follow me..."

But I will, I think to myself. But I press my lips together and stay quiet. She's still upset; as well am I, so I'm not really worried that she's being cold with me. I follow her into the bathroom, which if given any other situation, this would be a bit odd. I lean against the frame, watching her for a moment.

Tris stands with her body pressed against the counter, and stares into the mirror. Her fingers ghost over the bruises, and her eyes glass over for a moment. The bruises now cover most of her face, from just below her eye down to the bottom of her chin. The skin is swollen around her nose and along her jawline. She touches the back of her head; I didn't realize there was anything wrong there.

She catches my eyes in the mirror, and her scowl matches mine. She drops her gaze down to the sink and mutters, "it's not that bad."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" I ask. Tris sighs, and holds the ice pack—that's probably only cool now—to her face. She faces me, meeting my eyes.

"Myself, probably," she answers, bitterly, "It looks bad, doesn't it?"

I shrug and step towards her, bringing my hand up to touch her face. I remember to avoid any bruises or bumps, "Well, I've seen worse... but it's pretty bad. You're lucky he didn't break your nose..." I say softly. She nods weakly, and I close my eyes for a moment, "I don't like seeing you hurt. Nobody should ever touch you like that."

"It'll heal," she mumbles.

"And when it does, do you plan on fighting Peter again?" I ask, harsher than I mean to. "Do you plan on showing him that he can do this again?"

"I'm not a child," Tris rolls her eyes, and for a split second I feel a flare of irritation. "Don't scold me like I am one—!"

I suppress the urge to argue, "—Do you remember what I told you, after the incident with Eric? About my mother?"

She falters, "Of course I do." I suck in a deep breath, and I decide I have nothing left to lose. I can tell her anything.

"I watched my mother get hurt, at the hands of my own father, Tris. I've seen my mother bleed, almost to the point where I didn't think it'd ever stop. My father was supposed to love my mother, not abuse her. I saw the same compulsion in Peter's expression, hitting you, that my father had every time he beat my mother, or even me. My father was supposed to be a man, not a monster—he's a coward, just like Peter. I know you can handle yourself, and I'm glad you had some knowledge on fighting... but when I told you last night there's more bravery in walking away, I wasn't trying to tell you what you should have done differently. I was trying to tell you that you don't have to be fighter, even if you're provoked. I know Peter is an awful person... I know I fought Eric because he provoked me—that was my mistake, and look where it got us now. I just didn't want to see you get hurt. You can be strong and brave in different ways..." safer ways.

She bites her lip, "I'm sorry... I hadn't thought about that." I nod, but I wouldn't expect her to think the same way I do. Sometimes it's easy to forget, not everyone grew up the same way I did. Especially Tris—she is wholesome, and too good to have ever experienced anything my childhood exposed me to.

"The thing I hate the most, is this feeling like I expect everybody to understand it," I tell her, trying to keep the anger from my voice—I am tired of being angry all the time.

"I won't fight Peter again," Tris says.

"I can't stop you if you do," I shake my head. Shauna was right, if she wanted to fight I wouldn't be able to stop her. Even if she wanted to now, I couldn't tell her not to. I could only hope that she wouldn't, for me.

"But I won't," she says firmly, "I promise."