by D. Fischer
Gleaming weight machines, beefy treadmills, and slim bike machines are the first thing I see sprawled over the clean and blue mat floor. Their steel metals glint the many can lights from the ceiling, causing the machines to sparkle like diamonds. Mirrors make up the walls, and everything reflects back, making the room seem larger than it is. They seemingly vibrate to the bass of the song.
On the other end, after the last row of treadmills, are a few dangling boxing bags and then an open space large enough for several partners to spar or practice some other form of exercise. Speakers hug tightly to each corner, and under one of them is the controls for the music, a smartphone connected to the device with a playlist glinting on the screen.
I recognize the song immediately, having heard it in my gym back when training and lifting was my daily routine. The smell is familiar, but the hint of tangy lemon cleanses the smell of body order a normal gym has. It brings me back to easier times, and my palms thrum with the urge to run them over the rough surface of the boxing bags.
A thwack draws my attention to the body in the room. One of the bags swings to each punch Flint delivers. His reflection shows his face in the nearest mirror, hard and determined as he times each punch correctly with every swing. He’s shirtless with silky shorts loose around his hips, the color of blue and yellow, and a white towel drapes over his shoulders. His skin is sweaty, slick with the time spent in this humid oasis.
Stepping inside, I softly shut the door behind me. For a moment, I bask in the glory of familiarity of the song because it drowns the sounds of the voices and the anxiety pressing against my chest. I close my eyes to it, allow it to tingle across my body and settle into my fingertips.
Shucking my borrowed shirt from Evo – the only guy big enough to supply me with one – I drape it over a nearby bike, hooking it on the handle. With wet feet, I slosh my way to the cabinet where the tape teeters on the edge of a shelf along with chemicals to clean the machines and towels to dry sweat.
Flint, still gripped in a dark mood and the effort of concentration on punching his bag, either hasn’t noticed me or hasn’t broken his concentration on whatever thoughts darken his mood. There’s definitely something darker below his charming, cheerful attitude. That much is clear by how quickly he jabs and how focused his eyes are set.
I snag the spool of tape and start wrapping my knuckles. I don’t need to; the black rock-like substance that makes my skin won’t break. Not by a punch bag anyway. I’m more worried about what damage it’d cause to the bag I keep eyeballing on Flint’s left. I wrap my knuckles because I like the familiarity of my reality, and I stare at the bag like an old sparring partner.
Flexing my fingers against the strain of the tape, I make my way to the bag. It is then Flint finally notices me, but he doesn’t pause in his punches for a proper greeting. Instead, he nods as I stand before the swinging sand sack. Rolling my shoulders, I grunt my greeting, but the music drowns the sound.
I place my hand on the bag and let my fingers trail over the rough cloth, remembering punches to opponents and strategies barked in my ear.
The song changes. For just a moment, echoed by the slap of Flint’s fist, a hush washes over the gym before another boom of bass rattles the mirrors. It’s faster paced like the movies have during the action scenes. My adrenaline spikes with the quick climax of the song, trembling my muscles with anticipation.
Centering my stance, I tighten closed fists in front of my middle, duck my head slightly, and punch. I connect a bit too hard, and the chains that hold the bag creak as the heavy weight almost hits the ceiling in a swing.
Flint pauses in his punching, and I hear the small clearing of his throat while he worries over his cherished equipment.
The bag swings back, and I hit again but with less force. Again and again, I punch. And with each punch, the pressure feels lifted from my chest. With each hit, the voices quiet to a dull ache. It isn’t long before I’m drowning in my thoughts, in everything I’ve endured, using the actions and blows to transfer the emotional pain from my body to the sand. Soon, my awareness of my surroundings drops. My punches become more forceful again, especially when my thoughts drift to Corbin’s smirk and his plans to kill Eliza by murdering Kheelan. I’m not against Kheelan’s death. Not by a long shot. The world would be a better place without him, but in doing so, Eliza will die. She must kill him. But how do we get close enough for her to do so? How can I possibly ask that of her? Especially when I’m so desperate to keep her safe. When leaving her might be the only way to do that.
Mercy. An elbow jab. Mercy is a weakness for some people. A side jab. You aren’t some people. Punch, punch, jab. It’ll be what saves you, and saves her, in the end.
The bag swings heavy again, and as it comes back at me, I turn swiftly and kick.
The chain snaps as though it were nothing but a thin thread. The bag flies to the mirrored wall and crashes into it. The heavy weight cracks it, raining sharp shards over the blue mat while dropping to the floor with the bag.
“Jesus,” Flint curses over the music. He strides to the smartphone and turns it off before returning to his spot.
My shoulders heave with my troubles, subconsciously aware of the bag’s movements. I lift them to the cracked mirror, to the shards still held in place against the wall. Staring at it, at my reflection, I’m reminded of the woman I killed and the mirror I broke before I murdered her. My eyes become molten, and one lava tear drops to the blue pads, sizzling. The smell of burning plastic greets my nose before Flint rushes over and uses his shoe to grind out the beginnings of a fire.
He grips my shoulders right after and forces me to meet his gaze. “Center yourself,” he barks, his face darker than I’m used to. For just one single moment, his eyes glow a bright shade of lime green, dilating to wolf’s irises before the normal colors return.
But I can’t center myself. I can’t at all, no matter how hard I try to turn my thoughts into something more pleasant than past murders and the deaths yet to come. My life will be an endless cycle of them, either by my hand or by someone else’s. I’ll forever be surrounded by death. I’ll forever consume the terror of it. I’ll forever be a danger to anyone and everyone.
My skin begins to radiate speckled spots, the sparkles turning to embers, and Flint snaps back his hands as they sizzle his skin. He curses again. “Aiden! Eliza is safe. She’s safe! Do you hear me?”
At the mention of Eliza’s name, my attention snaps from myself in the broken mirror to Flint. His hard expression softens after a moment of study, and he crosses his arms over his chest and widens his stance.
“You need to control yourself,” he says in a normal tone.
“You mean like you do?” I ask, stanching the flow of lava from my eyes.
He sneers, and his top lip twitches. “Yes.”
I wipe the drying lava from my cheeks, and Flint hands me the damp towel around his neck. Using the cloth, I transfer the cooling substance from my hands to the white, forever charring the fabric.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks as I chuck the towel at the door, intent on trashing it after I’m done here.
“No,” I say and turn swiftly in favor of a machine.
With my sparkling embers now gone, he wraps his fingers around my bicep, stopping my advance. My shoulders bunch at the restraint, and I fight the urge to shove him off.
“Let’s try this again,” he says, calmly. “Tell me what’s going on, Aiden. Even as a demon, you can’t keep this to yourself. You’re not a normal demon.”
I say nothing. I do nothing. I simply stand there with my back to him, coiled muscles and all.
He ponders aloud. “It’s about Eliza, isn’t it? You’re worried you’ll hurt her.”
“Am I that obvious?” I ask, tipping my head over my shoulder to glance at him.
Quickly, he releases my bicep, stalks forward, and seats himself on a bench. “Well, yeah.” He widens his legs apart and perches is elbows on his knees.
Hesitat
ing and eyeing his unwavering, probing gaze with wariness, I eventually lumber forward and sit on the bench nearest him. I lay back and seize the bar from the holder already heavy with weights. “I’ll be sure to keep my emotions tucked away then.”
“That’s my point, Aiden. You don’t have to do that here.”
I lift the weight three times, but the effort is useless. I’m too strong for the heaviest weight, and it feels like I’m lifting nothing but a feather. The familiar motion, however, is what I find comforting.
“She doesn’t blame you, you know. None of us do. We know it wasn’t really you who –” he pauses.
“Who attacked Katriane DuPont, the favored and loved?” I say, grunting the words. “Who would have attacked her if she had gotten to me first?”
He says nothing, and I steal a glance. He’s rigid but unflinching, unthreatened even. Brave man. “You need to stop blaming yourself. I’ve been watching you, Aiden. You’re more animal than human. Your instincts are to protect, to fight, to love with your whole heart. You’re territorial. You feed like a starving, rabid beast who doesn’t know when he’ll get his next meal. And my guess is,” he says as he points, “you don’t know how to handle it. You have no idea how to control yourself.”
My eyebrows flick into my forehead. He’s an obtusely observant shifter to be able to pick up the slightest details like that. “You should be a detective,” I say.
“I am actually.” He shrugs. “Well, sort of. Before the Guardian Realm, Kenna used to have a P.I. business, and when she had baby Coleman, I took it over. Nothing official. Just a hired investigator off the books.”
“Good for you,” I mumble, hoping this subject will drop the previous.
“Look, man.” He leans back and scratches his jaw. “Eliza doesn’t strike me as the foolish type. If she was scared of you, she would have run the moment you tried to eat Kat. She didn’t. She forgave you. She knew you were crazed. She knew you were in your element, trying to protect her. It’s not your fault. She knows it. You know it. We all know it. You need to forgive yourself.”
“No,” I say, drawing out the word. “I should leave before I hurt anyone.”
Flint chuckles, but there’s absolutely no humor behind it. It’s mocking, and I bristle at the sound. “For a man who is known as Thrice-Born, you’re impossibly ignorant.”
Sitting up abruptly, I halter the weights on my way up and swing my legs over the side, meeting his posture squarely. “You know nothing of the struggles I endure, wolf. You know nothing about me. Don’t pretend you do. I could kill you in one breath, yet you act like I’m one of the pack in need of saving. You can’t save me. You can’t comfort me. I know what I am. I know what I’m capable of. I know what I’m made for.”
“What? Death?” He points at me, unafraid. “You’re not the only one who’s been tortured, who had to fight for their own humanity, and who’s had to battle inner demons and outer enemies to keep the ones they love safe. If you leave, you’ll do more damage than good.”
It’s my turn to snicker humorlessly. “Is this where we hold hands and spill our inner, most dark thoughts and troubles?”
“I made peace with myself a long time ago.” He bends forward and whispers his next words. “And I didn’t do that alone. That’s not a weakness. That’s a strength most won’t endure for sense of pride.”
“Oh?” I challenge. “Is that why you’re out here pummeling a bag while the rest of your pack sleeps?”
He inhales deeply and leans back as if I slapped him across the cheek. “I’m out here before everyone else, so I don’t have to share my space with another. Yes, I still struggle, but I’ve learned to not let it rule me, and so will you.”
“How?” I ask, tilting my jaw and eyeing him cautiously.
Placing his elbows back on his knees, he leans forward again. “By having someone to help remind you of who you are. By finding as much humanity in your life as you can. By practicing human ways and limiting the time the beast has control. And lastly, by controlling your emotions and channeling them somewhere else.”
“And what exactly,” I murmur, “do you expect me to channel it to?” He pokes his thumb to his chest, and I rub my jaw.
“You want to spar,” I say. “Sparring with me might not be a good idea.”
“It’s as good as any,” he says, shrugging. “The shifters spar all the time with each other, and I haven’t had a good partner in a while. Usually, it’s Ben who spars with me, but he’s been wrapped up with the end of the world situation we have going on. The challenge will be welcoming.”
I flex my jaw. He has no idea what he’s asking.
“I might kill you,” I caution.
He grins brightly and bobs his shoulders with delight. “You could sure try.”
I speculate over this. Sparring with another has always eased my troubles in the past. And in doing so, I’d not only sharpen my skill for whatever is to come, but it’d also provide the familiarity I need to keep myself in check. Perhaps Flint has a point. Perhaps, in order to keep Eliza safe, I need to learn restraint. I’m still unfamiliar with this new life, with these temptations. Perhaps… Perhaps it’s not me that’s unsafe but, instead, my unchecked discipline. If I learn to control myself, she’ll be safer around me. If it doesn’t work, then I’ll leave, no matter how much it kills me to.
“All right,” I agree with a nod. To further seal the deal, I hold out my hand to shake his. Flint reaches forward to grasp my hand, and when he does so, he yanks us both to our feet with a strength he keeps well-hidden.
“Good. We start now.”
“Now?” I ask incredulously.
“Yes.” He quirks a challenging brow at me. “The pack won’t wake for another hour. It’s best if you do this more privately, at least at the beginning. An audience won’t help you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ELIZA PLAATS
EARTH REALM
This morning, I wake alone in bed. I had expected to see Aiden, to talk with him about my troubles and his fears. My dreams had echoed them restlessly, and this morning, I’m really feeling the repercussions of it. Dark circles tint the skin under my eyes, and each of my joints aches as though I spent most of the night curled too tightly.
I’m a little hurt he’s not here, but on a smaller scale, I understand. Watching someone sleep while remaining awake with only thoughts to comfort had to have been hard. I get it, but the sting is still there as I get ready alone.
Before I had fallen back asleep, I watched him struggle with himself, creating an emotional distance that wasn’t there before. I want him to know that I don’t fear him, that I accept him, and that’s exactly what I had planned to discuss this morning. But instead of finding him right away, I have to go searching for him. I head to the Alpha’s kitchen only to be handed a cup of coffee by Kelsey. The steam curled pleasantly up my nostrils as I inhale it deeply.
Hovering over the coffee pot, red mug in hand, I smile at Kenna who barely holds up any sense of authority against her tantrum toddler. Instead of eating the cereal, Coleman tosses it from the highchair, raining cheerios on the head of Kelsey’s baby, Sarah, asleep in the swing.
Pans of cinnamon rolls are cooking in the oven and the kitchen smells deliciously sweet, making it hard to not linger. When Victoria strides, slinging glares in my direction, the rising tension becomes palpable. She doesn’t like me, that much is obvious. Knowingly getting me away from Victoria’s wrath, Kelsey directs me to the gym where the pack settled to spar, saying Aiden’s been out there since before they even woke.
Thoroughly annoyed by the hostile Victoria, I thank the women for the brew by tipping my mug to them, and then head outside into the damp morning air in search of the man himself. I don’t know where the gym is, but I didn’t need to search for it. With the rains now gone, the pack, and their guests, had moved to the outdoors, sloshing about in the grass.
Many were sparring with a partner while Kat watched on from the bottom of the porch with Brenna,
seated on the same stair. I walk down the short flight, balancing my cup of coffee precariously, and sit on the step just behind them. They both turn to me.
Thoroughly confused, I thank the women for the brew and head outside into the damp morning air in search of the man himself. I don’t know where the gym is, but I don’t need to search for it. With the rains now gone, the pack and their guests have moved to the outdoors, sloshing about in the grass.
Many are sparring with a partner while Kat watches on from the bottom of the porch with Brenna seated on the same stair. I walk down the short flight, balancing my cup of coffee precariously, and sit on the step just behind them. They both turn to me.
“Morning,” Bre says, eyeing my cup of coffee wistfully. She smiles sympathetically after she studies my face. “Didn’t sleep well?”
“No,” I say, a chuckle in my admission.
She shrugs. “New place and all. You’ll settle in soon.”
Below, each partner is swift in attack, often using a sequence of punches and kicks, but as they connect skin to skin, it’s nothing more than a tap or jab. The silence of the numerous people sparring is almost eerie if not beautiful. It’s a dance and a song at the same time.
Bre turns back to watch them, and all I can think is how wrong she is. At least in a way. I don’t want to get used to it. I want a life of my own. It is not my wish to live on pack territory long nor be comfortable enough to stay. Goodness knows they’d let us, too.
But, on the opposing side of my own argument, here is where we’re safe and protected for the moment. We’re hiding in plain sight, and if I think we’ll ever have something that resembles a normal life again after all of this . . .
I rub at the corner of my eye, careful not to jostle the mug of gently steaming coffee. I wish I knew Aiden’s thoughts on the matter, but he won’t talk to me about them.
