His eyebrows shoot up, a flicker of shock flashing across his face before a small smile tugs at his mouth. He lets out a heavy huff and drags a hand through his dark hair that’s slick with sweat. “Yeah, the weight is definitely fueling the rage well. It reminds me how helpless I feel at times, when I can barely get the bag to move.”
The honesty in his tone catches me off guard.
I’m not sure what to say back, but I do know that we both need to get some energy out, and maybe we can do that at the same time.
I tilt my head at him, then at the bag. “Your turn to watch. Hold it for me.”
His warm chocolate eyes flicker, surprise flashing there for a second, but he nods almost too quickly, like refusing me never even crossed his mind. He grips the sides of the bag, bracing his chest against it with one foot digging into the ground, as if he already knows I won’t go easy on him.
I drag the wraps from the shelf and wind them around my hands with quick, practiced motions. The first punch I throw is light, for me, at least. I catch the flicker of his brows rising, the subtle shift in his shoulders as he adjusts to absorb the force. I give him another, harder this time. Then harder still as I see he can handle it.
Each impact sends a satisfying jolt up my arms, rattling bone and muscle. With every strike I push harder and faster. The bag rocks violently under my fists, and Dante’s eyes widen as he digs in his heels to keep it still.
He wasn’t there when I tore through every guard that came after us after our crash. He didn’t see how much damage I can do with blood roaring in my veins and rage on my side. Only Elias saw it. The realization of my training and agility seems to dawn on Dante now, shock flashing across his sweat-slicked faceas he grits his teeth and leans his weight into the bag to steady it against the force of me.
The bag thuds beneath my fists, each impact rattling up my arms and stealing some of the chaos from my chest, giving space for a question to form in my mind.
“Was your dad always like this?” I ask between strikes, breath puffing out sharp as my fist slams into leather repeatedly.
Dante’s hands flex around the bag’s sides, bracing harder. “No. Not like this.” His voice is surprisingly calm as he adds, “Though he always had a disdain for the supernatural and made sure we knew it.”
His jaw tightens and I land another blow that makes the chain rattle above him. “But after my mom died…” he trails off for a moment as his throat bobs. “After she was killed by a newly turned vampire–according to the cops–while on her way out of the grocery store, it was like something inside him snapped. Any softness he had left died with her.”
My fists connect again, harder, and the sound echoes in the gym.
I hate that my first thought is of how awful that must have been for his family to learn of what happened. Sure, I should feel empathy for Dante, as he was just a kid that lost his mother and was left with the monster his father turned into. But why does a part of me even feel empathy for Terrance and the rage from her death that fueled him?
After everything he’s done, that part of me shouldn’t exist.
“Maybe that’s the truth of him,” Dante mutters, drawing my focus back as I land heavier blows. “Maybe he was always this way deep down. It just took losing her to bring it all out and feel like he is justified in his hatred and desire to hurt supernaturals.”
I slam my knuckles into the bag again as I process his words.
He’s likely correct in that assumption, and even if it truly was the grief or rage of losing his wife that turned Terrance into the man he is now…both paths lead to the same result: him being killed tomorrow.
I can feel empathy for anyone who loses a loved one, be it naturally or tragically, but I won’t allow anyone to use that as an excuse to harm others.
He will answer for his crimes.
“The only warmth in our home came from my mom,” he says quieter now, as if he doesn’t mean for the words to slip out of his mind.
My eyes catch on the glint of gold against his sweat-slicked chest and the chain he told me is the last thing he has of her. When my eyes shift to his, a thought hits me harder than if this bag came back to knock me onto my ass.
There’s no hatred for me, or any supernatural, when he speaks of them during this conversation.
There never has been.
Ever since I first saw him at the compound, that’s been true. When he carried me in his arms, limp and half-broken, his face was blank, but not cruel. Not once did I catch the simmer of violence in his gaze when it landed on me. Elias had fury, Callum had grief, but Dante…he’s always been hollow where hatred should have lived under the weight of his father’s ideals.
And now, here in my home, with his jaw set and his hands steady on the bag, the truth clicks into place within my mind.
Despite being Terrance’s son, despite the blood in his veins, it’s somehow easier to forgive Dante faster than Elias and Callum. Because he never had a choice in being a part of it. He was just trying to survive under the shadow of the man who would’ve killed him for doing otherwise.
Trapped by family and the expectation that comes with being a part of it. Chained to a future he never wanted.
Maybe that’s why looking at him has never brought fire to my chest the way I expect it to. Maybe that’s why it feels different with him.
I pull back after another strike, breath ragged, and shake out my hands. My knuckles throb under the wraps, but it’s nothing compared to the ache twisting in my chest as I look at him.
