2. Eighteen and Caged

Without warning, a hard punch landed squarely on the stranger’s cheek, knocking him to the ground at Belle’s feet. Her eyes shot to Bastian, whose fist was still clenched tight.

“Bastian…” Belle’s voice trembled.

“Leave. Don’t make this worse,” Bastian ordered, his tone sharp.

The men quickly dragged their unconscious friend away. None of them wanted trouble with Bastian. His cold gaze followed them until they disappeared.

“You hurt, Sparrow?” Bastian shot her a look. Belle shook her head fast.

“This isn’t your world. You should know that by now.”

“And what world would you put me in, Bastian? Since you seem to know everything.” Belle’s heart ached at her own words.

Yet Bastian said nothing—no reply, no defense.

Moments later, Anthony and his friends came out of the warehouse. Anthony’s eyes widened when he saw Belle. Irritated, he stripped off his jacket and threw it over her shoulders, covering her crop top and shorts.

“What the hell, Belle? Where’s your hoodie?” Anthony snapped.

“In the car. I was sweating and—”

Bastian cut her off. “Next time, cover up if you don’t want trouble.”

“What trouble?” Anthony pressed, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing.” Bastian shook his head.

Without another word, he strode off toward the parking lot where his motorcycle was waiting, his crew following behind. Belle trailed behind with Anthony.

Belle's heart was a mess. Bastian had scolded her as if she were a trashy girl flaunting herself. But to Belle, there was nothing wrong with what she wore.

“Hey, Anthony, are you coming with us?” Pooh asked.

Anthony shook his head. "I have to take Belle home. I’ll catch up later.”

He hurried Belle into the car.

Belle let out a shaky breath. Just minutes ago, she’d nearly been attacked. If Bastian hadn't stepped in, things could have ended horribly. Yet now, Bastian acted like it was nothing.

“Hey!” Anthony snapped his fingers in front of her face. “What’s wrong with you?"

Belle quickly shook her head. "I'm just tired."

"Besides, it's past your bedtime. Didn't I tell you? There's nothing exciting here for you."

There is. Him.

Bastian was like a magnet, pulling Belle in and making her want to follow him wherever he went. She had waited years just to stand near him. Yet, his steps always seemed farther out of reach, and she could never quite catch up.

Anthony started the car and eased it forward down the gravel path. Ahead, the dim glow of motorcycle taillights flickered in the darkness. It was the Blackfist motorcycle.

“Where are you guys going?” Belle asked suddenly.

Anthony glanced at her. "My place."

“Can I come?”

“No, Belle. You need to go home and sleep. I promised Mom and Dad I’d have you back before midnight.” He checked his watch. "And it's already past that."

Despite his tattoos and rough attitude, Anthony still respected his parents. It was less about respect and more about keeping his distance from his father while protecting his mother.

Belle pouted. “But I’m with you. What’s the harm?”

"You know what? I’ve already gone along with what you wanted tonight. Isn’t that enough?”

Anthony hated lying to their mother just because Belle insisted on coming along. If their father ever found out, Anthony would be blamed for influencing his sister, when, in reality, Belle was just stubborn.

“Just go home. Find kids your own age to hang out with. My friends and I aren’t the right crowd for you,” he blurted out.

“What?”

“I’m not babysitting you, Belle.”

Babysit? The word cut deep.

“So you hate that I'm with you? I never asked you to watch over me all the time, Anthony!” Her voice rose.

“Forget it. I’m not going to argue with you.”

For the first time, Belle was genuinely disappointed in Anthony. To her, he was a role model—the badass brother who had his own crew, graduated, and left home to forge his own path. He owned a tattoo shop downtown, was popular, and everyone knew him.

Why couldn't she want to be like him? Why did he now treat her like a burden? Her chest ached.

*

The next morning, Belle dragged herself out of bed and slumped into a high chair at the kitchen counter. Her mom, Mrs. Watson, gave her a puzzled look.

“How was movie night with Anthony? Fun?” She sat beside her daughter and cut waffles into bite-sized pieces. “What did you guys watch?”

"Alien," Belle muttered.

"That explains it." Her mom chuckled.

Restless, Belle sighed and sipped her orange juice.

Mr. Watson, Belle's dad, came in fresh from his jog. He kissed Belle on the head, her mom on the cheek, and poured himself a glass of juice.

“You’re coming tonight, right?” he asked Belle.

Inwardly, she groaned. Belle hated those formal events hosted by the mayor—ball dances, charity dinners, and golf tournaments. They were just boring gatherings of the city’s wealthy elite.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“It’s not just for adults, honey. You’ll meet other young people there,” Mrs. Watson said, her eyes twinkling. "There'll be some hot boys, too."

“Mom…” Belle protested.

"Don't encourage her," her dad said, frowning. “Belle should be thinking about her future—college, graduating, and taking over the family business.”

Belle tuned them out. It always came back to Anthony—how he was a disappointment and how Belle was the one who had to take responsibility.

It was as if Belle's life was already set in stone: born, study, inherit the business, live, die. No surprises.

“Fine. I’ll go to the dance,” Belle muttered.

At least that way, she wouldn't have to listen to her parents' endless worries about Anthony.

"Great!" Mrs. Watson hugged her. "You won't regret it."

Really? Belle thought.

What could she possibly get out of a dull evening full of fake smiles and stiff posture?

Belle had already experienced the adrenaline rush the night before at the underground boxing match.

Compared to that, the ball would be nothing but a cage.