Whoosh.
Thud.
Whoosh.
The heavy punching bag swung in the dark as I pounded my taped fists against it.
The clock on the training room wall read six in the morning, but time didn’t matter when you didn’t rest.
My nights were spent standing over Alexis, watching her sleep.
Every morning at five, I ripped myself away from her side and took out my aggression in the gym.
Missions had been paused after the Rome incident, aka the worst day of my fucking life.
There was nothing to do but run through Titan simulations, stalk Alexis, and prepare for the SGC.
August was fast approaching.
We’d started incorporating battle weapons into our daily exercises, mostly sword and dagger work, since guns weren’t allowed in the Dolomite Coliseum. The modern weapons dishonored the Kronos blessed sands—only knives, swords, and fists were allowed. Alexis did okay, but she was a novice, and it would takeyearsto master a blade.
We didn’t have years. We had weeks.
On top of all that, Alexis hadn’t talked to us since we’d fought with Patro and Achilles a few weeks ago.
She hadn’t said asingleword.
Not one.
The Crimson Duo had fucking left her todie. We’d saved her, and yet she was mad at both of us.
Little did she know, we’d shown them mercy.
They were still alive.
Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I kicked out. The bag careened violently to the side, spinning. I kicked it back in the other direction. The need to slaughter, kill, hurt, was a constant urge.
Thud-thud-thud.
I jabbed with all my might.
Bloody prints smeared the bag’s surface as my knuckles split.
I punched faster.
The sound was muffled strangely without the shell of my left ear, but I hadn’t lied when I said I was glad Alexis had it. If she’d been permanently marred by the fucking Titans, Achilles and Patro would be dead right now.
I kicked harder, my ruined knee on fire.
It was a Kronos damned miracle that Alexis couldn’t feel my or Augustus’s pain.Thank fuckthe connection only went one way. Embarrassment churned inside my gut at the mere thought of Alexis knowing how I felt.
If she knew just how weak I was, how much my leg hurt daily, she’d be disgusted.
She’d think I wasn’t good enough to be her husband.
At this point, I’d doanythingfor a single word from her. I’d strip naked and crawl. I’d stab myself in the heart.
At night, I found myself delicately tracing her cheeks, her nose, her eyebrows, with the tips of my fingers, desperate to connect with her.
