I can’t believe it. I actually knocked him down.
“All right.” He stares at the ceiling for a moment, catching his breath. “That, I didn’t expect.” He rolls away before jumping to his feet. “I hope if I was a real threat, you would have kicked me while I was down.”
“That’s dirty fighting.”
“And if I was threatening your life, you wouldn’t have to question whether the fight was dirty or clean.” He places a hand over his stomach and offers a wry chuckle. “Someone taught you well.”
I don’t have time to react before he lunges. The next thing I know, I’m on my back again, thanks to the way he efficiently took my legs out from under me. He stands over my prone body, hands on his hips. “Don’t let your guard down,” he instructs. “Because your opponent might fight dirty, too. Come on. Get up. Keep going.”
Right, I have to keep going. It doesn’t matter how tired I am, how sore I am. My entire existence is a fight. I stand, rolling my shoulders before getting in a fighting stance. I throw myself at him, and he repels me. I do it again and again, getting in whatever blows I can deliver. An elbow to the ribs, a knee to his midsection. He doubles over, and I deliver an elbow to the back of his neck—not as hard as I could since I’m not trying to seriously wound him. I still have enough presence of mind not to be too reckless.
And when I do it, I’m not hitting Lucas. I’m hitting Matteo and everyone who hurt me that night. I’m hitting Nash for making me feel unsafe. The ones who laughed at me. Who described the torture they thought I deserved. All of their faces swim in my mind’s eye. It’s only when my cries of rage fill the room and echo off the walls that I realize I’m making a sound.
By the time I’m finished, ready to drop from exhaustion, I feel empty. In a good way, though. Clean. There’s no room for anxiety or regret or any of it when I’m so damn tired.
And successful. Lucas pushes himself up onto one knee, his breathing labored after the beating he received. “How do you feel?” He looks up at me from under his brow.
“Better.” I drag an arm over my forehead to catch the perspiration that’s beaded on my skin.
“Good. That was what you needed.” He stands up straight, almost smiling as he looks me up and down. “You’ve been holding out on me. On all of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you first came here, you were a mouse. Timid. Jumping at your own shadow. Now, you’re a true warrior. Use your anger. Harness it like you did a minute ago while using me as a punching bag, and you might get through this yet.”
I don’t ask him what he means by this. I don’t need to. We both know I’m going through a war I did nothing to start.
At least now, I’ll have the memory of knocking the big man on his back whenever I feel weak or helpless.
30
QUINTON
It’s late enough by the time I get back to Corium that I assume most of the people residing within its walls are asleep. I’m glad to be back inside, far from the punishing winds and snow of the tundra. What a difference, considering where I’ve returned from. I never thought Corium would feel like a haven, but it does. Remembering the cells in that hangar makes me more grateful than ever to live comfortably.
If I ever need a reminder of why it’s important to exercise caution in my doings, I only need to remember what I’ve done to my enemies. I wouldn’t want to be on their side of the situation. Who knows? My tormentor might end up being even more sadistic than I am.
Though I doubt anyone would have more reason than I do. Because no one but me has Aspen.
On the way to my room, I power up my phone. The texts she sent throughout the day pierce me with guilt.
Me: I had some things to take care of. I’m back now.
I send the message before continuing down the halls and into the elevator to my level. All the while, my message sits unread.
Is this some kind of game? Does she think she’s going to win? If she does, she’s forgotten who she’s dealing with.
Me: Turn around? Is that what you’re telling me? I’m sorry I was out of reach. It couldn’t be helped.
Once again, the message comes up as being delivered but unread. My jaw tightens in unison, with my hand tightening around the phone. Rather than send another text I’m sure will go unread, I will call her once I’ve reached my room. The phone rings once, twice, without an answer. Her voicemail doesn’t pick up either. Has she turned off her phone? Why would she do that? If this is a game, I’m not playing.