TWENTY-ONE
Decima
Even as Ilay on my cot perfectly still, my mind wouldn’t stop shifting back and forth between thoughts. Maybe I needed to try some of that meditation stuff. Although Blaze had said it didn’t actually help him to settle down but just to feel more in harmony with the rest of the world or something, so who knew if it’d work for me either?
He’d said a lot of things today. Things that had set my mind into this whirling of uncertainty. I’d felt so… so good watching that episode of Spy Time, everything else in my life falling away, laughs tumbling out of me like I couldn’t remembering happening since I was a kid.
But then, as the credits had rolled, he’d turned to me and asked if I wanted to watch another, and reality had come crashing in. There were a hell of a lot of other things in my life, things I couldn’t—shouldn’t—forget. How could I sit there laughing at some silly TV show when Anna and everyone else in the household were dead, when I’d barely made any progress into figuring out who’d killed them, let alone bringing them justice?
Blaze could treat life as a game all he wanted, but he didn’t know what mine was made up of. He didn’t understand how important it’d been for me to stay focused and train as hard as I had. Every time I’d left the household, I’d been risking my life to take down a threat, with the whole household depending on me. Happiness was a distraction, not something I should have been chasing.
And yet… some part of me wanted so badly to go out there and beg him to put on that second episode. What was wrong with me?
I couldn’t stand keeping my body motionless any longer. Pushing myself upright, I eyed the exercise equipment that filled the rest of the room the cops had given me. Working out had always been my surest method to blow off steam and regain my focus.
I needed to get my priorities straight, and all of the emotion boiling inside of me was accomplishing the opposite. It had to go.
A half-hour sprint on the treadmill would start the job well, and an extended arm workout after that—weights and maybe some bodyweight work—would finish the job. The prospect of exhausting myself thoroughly brought me a much more comfortable sense of relief.
I pulled my hair back from my face and went through several opening stretches. Getting on the treadmill, I allowed myself to ease into its grip and resistance before jogging on it. I’d used them before, but every machine was a little different. You could roll an ankle if you started at top speed on equipment you weren’t familiar with.
Once I’d set my ideal pace, I flew. Remembering Noelle’s coaching, I willed my breathing to remain steady until the entire process became a constant thrum of instinct and will. The running drove me forward, my legs and lungs started to burn, and the long days of emotion-filled events peeled away from me one layer at a time.
I turned the treadmill up another notch, adjusting my form and easily keeping pace. My heartbeat increased in tempo with it. My ribs thrummed with each hard pound of my feet, but they were nearly healed. The pain was mild enough that I could breathe right through it in a matter of minutes.
Just how I liked it.
When the burn started to prick at my muscles, switching from exhilaration to exhaustion, I slowed my sprint to a fast lope and continued, closing my eyes. I’d seen normal women jogging along the city streets before, passing by me while I was immersed in a mission. Did they get the same release out of it that I did, or did they run for some other reason?
The door to the workout room opened with a squeak of the hinges, and I spared a glance behind me. Talon stood in the doorway, a towel slung over his shoulder and a jug of water dangling from his hand. I tilted my head up in greeting but didn’t give him more of an acknowledgment than that.
“I heard you going at it and figured I’d join you,” he said. “The others have all headed out, and I could use something to keep me occupied.” He paused as if waiting for my approval.
I wondered if he’d turn around and leave if I told him to. Had it been anyone else, I might have tested that question, but I knew Talon wouldn’t attempt to make small talk while he worked out. Anyway, it was his exercise room. I was just an interloper here.
I gave him a sharp nod, and he didn’t say another word as he walked over to the rack of dumbbells. The weights clinked as he lifted a couple. I waited until his sounds of effort filled the room before I slowed to a fast walk and caught my breath.
My legs ached beautifully, and a thin layer of sweat covered my entire body. I raised the hem of my shirt and wiped the sweat from my face as my heart regained a normal, steady tempo. As I came down from the high of the exertion, my gaze traveled over to Talon, just as he lifted the weights he’d picked up.
Oh, fuck. I’d already known he was an immaculate specimen of manhood, but watching the muscles all through his shoulders, arms, and back flex to perfect effect made my sex clench. As he raised and lowered the weights with absolute control, the image rose up in my mind of what it would feel like to be held against that body, handled with the same muscular precision.
If watching a TV show could bring some kind of bliss, imagine how good indulging in that kind of “enjoyment” could be.
My lips tightened as I registered the thought that had just crossed my mind. I’d come in here to burn away my unwanted emotions, not stir up more of them. Apparently, I hadn’t run myself ragged enough on the treadmill.
With a groan, Talon placed his weights back on the rack and met my eyes, the blue of his as intense as ever. Sweat glistened atop his shaved scalp, enticing me to run my hands over the smooth skin.
“Are you done?” he asked. “I thought maybe we could spar.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Eager to show off your skills at dominating an injured opponent again?”
He gave me an even look, unfazed by my jab. “I find it’s the best kind of workout. Keeps the mind sharp as well as the body in shape. And you’re a good challenge even when injured. But I wasn’t planning on dominating.”
He strode to the chest at the side of the room and opened it, pulling out a pair of boxing gloves and sparring pads, creased with use but still shinier than the ones at the safe house.
He passed the boxing gloves to me, and I tapped his arm with one after I took them. “You should wear gloves too. You’re not my teacher, and I don’t need you to go easy on me. If we’re going to spar, let’s actually spar.”
He eyed me, still holding the pads that he’d planned on using to direct and deflect my hits. “You don’t want to box with me.”