MI

s. "You don't own the west side. I do!" I shout, my voice rough with anger. There's no backing down now, not w

e's furious, too mad to fight smart. I move lightly on my feet, staying in my stance, spitt

in. "You know his weak side. Light him up!" Kellan's part of the rebellion,

sharp jaw, same dark eyes, but taller by an inch. He's built like a tank at six-three, all mu

lot, drawing gasps from the small crowd gathering around. This is nothing new. E

ff his chin. Then, in a split second, he dips low, sc

tard got me good. My knee buckles as he kicks me hard, and I drop for a second, one hand h

only girl in my crew, a tomboy wolf with a sharp tongue and a

nk, pulling him to the ground. The thud of his body hitting the gravel is loud, satisfying. I hope I

he heavy presence that f

th R

tep back. My father's presence has that effect on everyone. H

ce booms, low and dangerous.

me. Never Rylan. I stand slowly, brushin

tarte

one, not a street brawler. I need you down in Upper Manhattan for the collection run. Wheelie

marked with scars from battles I've only heard whispers about. There's one deep line under his left eye, a scar that cuts acros

bing his jaw. I want to hit him again,

, though my voice sh

crunching against the gravel. The crowd starts to disperse, and I can feel my crew's eyes on me.

violence isn't just in the blood. It'