THIRTEEN
Decima
I satin the basement apartment with only Talon and his silent stare to keep me company.
Had it been the cookies that’d convinced the four men that I was now safe with just one guard, or maybe my willingness to throw the jewelry back to its rightful place? Whatever the case, they’d left right after dinner, and I felt three times less suffocated by masculinity as I leaned back on the well-worn sofa.
Unfortunately, their loosened security didn’t get me closer to my goal. I needed to go and see the contact who’d sent out a message to me, and it wasn’t like I could slip past Talon’s penetrating gaze.
She must know something important, or she wouldn’t have reached out like that. But I needed to go alone. No way were the cops letting up on my supposed protective detail completely.
Sitting for long periods had always made me irritable and impatient. Being watched by a brooding man with icy blue eyes—eyes that matched his cool demeanor and impervious personality—only amplified my restlessness. I couldn’t find the people who’d murdered the household while I was stuck in here. All I could do was wait until I got an opportunity to escape that I was sure I could take advantage of in my injured state.
My eyes caught on the punching bag across the room that I’d seen Talon working over to impressive effect. If I couldn’t go anywhere, I could at least put my body in motion. I shouldn’t let my body go soft while I lounged around here.
I only gave myself a moment to contemplate my injuries before standing. After grabbing an elastic from my bag in the bedroom to tie back my hair, I walked over to the bag. I ran my fingers down the leather surface, finding it just as heavy and sturdy as the punching bag I’d used for years in the household.
All the pent-up feelings that I’d held inside myself for the last few days were close to erupting, and this was the only way I’d be able to lessen the strain. Working out had always been a way for me to focus, to feel in control. With my bruised ribs and a sprained wrist, my exercise would be limited, but I could still make the best of it.
I turned my back on Talon, refusing to let his unwavering gaze influence me as I worked out my frustrations. No doubt he watched me as I stretched in place, my ribs protesting. I pushed through the pain, knowing that it wasn’t as important as my need to feel in control of something in this apartment. The ache centered me and reminded me of my strength.
I did three rounds of floor work, eyeing the bag with each crunch. I had to improvise on some routines, unable to do a full sit-up with the rib pain that stabbed through me when I tried. My pushups, usually flawlessly executed, had to be one-handed, so I could only do half my usual reps. Every move was a fight through discomfort, but once I’d completed the first stage of the workout, I gave myself a satisfied smile. I’d won the battle.
Standing, I faced the punching bag. I closed my left fist in the way I’d been trained for years to do. My other wrist throbbed when I tried to flex it beneath the brace.
No problem. Noelle had seen that I was well-trained on both sides.
I threw my first punch.
My ribs protested as I shifted my body into the strike, but it felt good. A sliver of tension fell from my neck and shoulders. I mocked a right punch, stopping before my fist collided with the bag, and twisted left, allowing my full force to fall behind the blow.
I lost myself to the flow of my punches, allowing my breath to flow in sync with them. As my breathing accelerated, so did my fists. I allowed the memories of the previous days to sweep through me and strengthen my blows. The anger. The denial. All of the emotions swelled within me until my strikes became the only thing keeping me grounded. The feeling of entrapment became a song for my fists to use as guidance.
I switched to a few kicks, and Anna’s pain-stricken face drove my next strikes. When I returned to punching, a small part of me expected my fist to go all the way through the bag, destroying it with the frustration and grief tangled inside me.
A touch on the small of my back jarred me from my trance. I whirled with my fists up, one already flying out for a knockout blow.
Talon caught my left hand with his much larger fingers, guiding the momentum of it to the side of his face and forcing me to stumble to the side with the sheer force of the attempted blow.
I shook myself as I caught my balance, gritting my teeth in anticipation of a mocking criticism. To my surprise, I got the opposite.
“You’ve got good form,” Talon said, without showing a hint of emotion.
I raised my eyebrows at him. “I thought you’d already figured that out.”
He gave a subtle shrug. “You weren’t exactly focused on technique the one time I’ve seen you fight.”
Fair. I cocked my head. “Can I keep going?”
He nodded to my hands. “Your footwork is more suited for a dominant right hand.”
That came as no surprise. I might have strengthened my left side for the sake of practicality, but my right side had always been my strongest.
“Yes,” I said. “I imagine it is, considering I’m right-handed.” A little impressive that he’d been able to tell just by watching me for a while, though.
He considered the brace holding my stronger wrist captive. If only he knew the things that I’d done with my left hand alone. The guns I’d used to take lives. The knives I’d wielded against my opponents.
I was proficient with my left hand. That was all I needed.