Chapter 1: The Barn of Broken Courage

I’m the most timid girl in the Whitaker family, and yet, here I am, being told to mess with the future villain—the kid everyone says is going to turn out bad.

It’s almost laughable, honestly. I can barely handle a moth in my bedroom, let alone that boy—the one everyone whispers about in the kitchen, you know? The one everyone says is headed for trouble, the one I’m supposed to toughen up against. My hands are already shaking, and my heart is thumping in my ears like a warning drumbeat. Seriously, what am I doing?

My whole body trembles as I step on the villain’s leg. "D-dog... or whatever..." I try to spit out an insult, but the words just jumble in my mouth. I can’t even insult him right.

My foot barely makes contact. I can't even look at him—can't even look at anyone. My voice cracks, the words tumbling out as a whisper. I can’t tell if I’m more scared of him or of disappointing my family. Either way, my hands are cold and clammy, and I feel like I might throw up. God, I just want this to be over.

My older sister, Savannah, is furious at how spineless I am. “Hit him! Why are you crying? Don’t be such a wimp!”

Savannah’s voice is sharp, slicing through the old barn air like a whip. Her eyes blaze. I shrink under her gaze. God, I wish I could just melt into the floorboards. In her world, weakness isn’t allowed. Not when there’s a war brewing and everyone has to be strong. But me? I’m just... me.

I gently pat his face, my fingers brushing his jaw, and suddenly, I’m crying even harder.

His skin is warm under my fingertips. Too warm. Too real. For a moment, I catch a flash of something in his eyes—confusion, maybe, or pity. The barn smells like hay and sweat, and my tears feel hot against my cheeks. I wish I could just disappear, or wake up and find this was all a bad dream.

“S-sorry.” I barely get the word out.

The word falls out of my mouth, small and useless, like a pebble dropped in a well. My voice is barely above a whisper, but the apology is real. I mean it, even if I know it won’t change a thing. My chest aches.

Later that day, somehow, the villain holds me close as we sit on the judge’s bench in the old courthouse, gripping my hand tight.

The bench is cold, the wood worn smooth from years of people sitting here. His grip is strong, almost desperate, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go. Outside, the courthouse lawn is quiet, the world waiting for the next verdict. I feel like I’m on trial, too, my nerves stretched thin.

“Lila, where else do you want to hit?”

His voice is low. Almost gentle. But there’s something wild in his eyes. It makes me shiver, and I can’t answer him. I just stare at our joined hands, wishing I could be brave like Savannah—or anyone else in my family, really. My stomach twists.

Everyone in the Whitaker family is brave. Everyone but me. I’m the biggest scaredy-cat.

It’s a running joke at family reunions: Lila, afraid of her own shadow. My cousins roughhouse in the yard, play tackle football, climb the old maple tree out back. I just sit on the porch steps, knees pulled to my chest, watching. I want to be like them, but I’m not. I’m just me, small and scared. Why can’t I change?

I don’t dare raise my voice. I don’t dare walk fast. I get teary-eyed if I eat too quickly.

Even at dinner, I’m the one who sits quietly, picking at my food, afraid to choke or spill something. I just know if I try to talk, I’ll choke or spill something. Happens every time. My siblings tease, but mostly they’re just worried. I know I’m a lot to handle, but I can’t help it.

With talk of war on the news, everything feels different. My whole family heads off to serve—some in the military, some volunteering—leaving me alone in Maple Heights. The house feels too big.

If there’s one thing the Whitakers are, it’s patriotic. The TV blares from the living room, anchors talking about troop deployments and rationing. I watch them pack up, hugging each other tight, promising to write. Suddenly the house feels too big, every room echoing with their absence. I’m alone, left behind with my worries.

Savannah worries my timid nature will get me pushed around, so she finds a stablehand who looks like he’s been in a bar fight or two for me to practice on.

She’s determined to make me tough, to knock some backbone into me. “You can’t let folks walk all over you, Lila,” she says, her voice firm. I know she means well, but the idea of hurting someone—even a stranger—makes my stomach twist. I can barely look at him.

They haul this guy in front of me—he can’t be older than eighteen, and he’s covered in bruises.

He looks like he’s seen better days. His shirt is torn, his jeans caked in mud, and there’s something hollow in his eyes, like he’s been through hell and back. I can’t imagine what he’s done to end up here, but I feel sorry for him already.

Savannah shoves a riding crop into my hand. “Hit him.”

My breath catches. The leather handle is cool and smooth, but it feels heavy in my grip. I look from the crop to the boy, my heart pounding. Savannah’s giving me that look—daring me to chicken out. I swallow hard, my throat dry.

I take it, hands trembling, and meet the villain’s deep, intimidating eyes. My brain goes blank. Before I know it, I drop to my knees, sobbing apologies, the fear swallowing me whole.

The crop clatters to the ground, and I cover my face with my hands. My voice shakes, and the tears come fast, hot and unstoppable. I can’t even look at him. All I can do is apologize over and over, my voice barely holding together. I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.

I barely touch him with the crop, giving him the lightest tap.

I barely touch him. Still, it feels like a betrayal. I can’t stand the thought of causing pain, even to someone I’m supposed to fear. My stomach twists.

Savannah’s angry voice echoes, “Lila! Did you even eat today? Put your back into it!”

She sounds exhausted, frustrated. I shrink even further into myself. God, why can’t I just get this right? The barn feels colder, the shadows longer. I just want to disappear.

She grabs the crop and demonstrates herself a few times.

Each strike snaps through the air. I flinch every time. The sound of leather on skin makes my stomach turn, and I can barely keep from covering my ears. My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel sick.

The sharp scent of blood fills the tack room. It’s metallic, sharp, and makes my stomach turn.