His grandfather’s voice rose through the chaos, steady and unyielding:
Power should shield, not consume.
He slammed another punch into the bag, his knuckles ablaze with protest.
Not enough.
His vision narrowed. All he could see was the need, raw and unrelenting, to hit, to break, todo something.
And then he saw her.
Arden, standing at the bar, smirking at Penny.
Her laugh drifting into the night.
Walking away without looking back.
The image hit harder than any punch.
A surge of adrenaline ripped through him, and he struck again—so hard the chain snapped taut, the bag swinging wildly on its hook.
She was out there.
Dancing. Laughing. Drinking.
With strangers who didn’t know her.
Who hadn’t earned that smile.
He had no right to feel this way. He knew that.
Didn’t stop the fury from coiling low in his gut.
Didn’t stop him from wanting to rip the bag off its hinges.
One final hit.
He stumbled back, bracing his hands on his knees. Breath heaving. Shirt soaked. Every muscle burning.
But the ache in his chest remained.
Why did he care so much?
The answer hovered, dangerous and undeniable.
Because she wasn’t just anyone else.
Because she was flame and grit, sharp lines and soft silences. Untouchable.
And he wanted to touch.
Straightening, he grabbed a towel and scrubbed the sweat from his face.
He paused. That face in the mirror. Jaw set. Eyes like they hadn’t slept in weeks.
He didn’t recognize himself.
Holding back had always been second nature. Safer. Cleaner.
