Nick's eyes narrow. He wasn't speaking like him and now he is. He doesn't want any blessings from anyone. Does he fucking look it?

He straightens up to his full, lamentably unimposing height, the knife gripped at his side in a firm, unspoken challenge. He knows how to fight with or without one, and just because the older boys knocked him around some, doesn't mean he can't hold his own. He's got to. He's had to learn it.

"I'm busy," he says pointedly. "An' I don' need annae of your blessings."