Each blow traveled through her frame, fists landing sharp and deliberate, cutting through the quiet in the cavernous space.
Sweat dripped into her eyes, carving slow trails down her back. Beneath it, bruises throbbed—earned, blooming in slow rise beneath the surface.
Again.
Harder.
Once more.
Her breath hit in steady beats—tight, controlled—keeping time with the chaos flashing behind her eyes.
Damon absorbed the impact with practiced ease and snapped, “Rivers, focus. You’re not fighting a ghost.”
She exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders.
If only it were a ghost.
Ghosts didn’t wear midnight-blue Chanel or speak in blade-edged pleasantries. Ghosts didn’t wield legacy like a weapon, or smile like they were sealing your fate.
And ghosts couldn’t make you feel like you’d only been allowed in the room as a favor.
She reset her stance, fists clenching tighter.
Control it.
Channel it.
Her knee drove into the mitt—fast, precise, punishing. The force snapped through her body, grounding her in something tangible. Something real. Because the rest of her life felt like smoke and mirrors.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not today.
The instructor grunted, shifting his stance. Block. Strike. Pivot.
She moved on instinct. Efficient. Deadly.
Only this time, it wasn’t discipline; it was purge.
The violence wasn’t clean.
It was therapy.
Adrenaline spiked hot in her veins, burning through the hollow space where sleep should’ve been. She hadn’t rested, not after Evelyn’s voice had wrapped around her like a noose. Not after standing her ground with steel in her spine and a storm behind her eyes.
Not after Gideon had watched her—silent, furious, restraining the kind of rage that would’ve destroyed the whole room if she’d let him go.
And afterward?
He hadn’t tried to save her.
He’d simply held her.
Like an anchor.
Like a vow.
Her fists slammed into the mitts—one, two, three—too hard, too fast.
