“Again.”
I square my stance and dodge forward. This time I hit his shoulder, but my strike is weak. His body barely shifts from the impact.
“I said hit me, not tickle me.” He steps into my space, grabs my wrist, and twists it, not to break it, but to prove he could. My knees almost buckle. “Don’t just punch. Control. Power. Rage with precision.”
I twist out of his grip, breath shaking, and shove him. Hard. He doesn’t budge, but something flickers in his eyes.
I go again. And again. Until my breath comes in short, painful bursts and my hands sting.
“This is what they want. Preston. Samantha,” he growls. “For you to be soft. Breakable. Easy to hurt.”
“I’m not.” I pant, stepping back. “I’m not fragile.”
“Then show me.”
I lunge. I aim for his side, his shoulder, anything solid. I don’t win, but I don’t fail either.
I swing again, harder this time. No aim, no control. Justneed.
“You’ve spent your whole life making yourself small,” he says, circling me like a shark tracking its prey. “Smiling when you wanted to scream. Freezing when you should’ve fought.”
“Shut up,” I pant, sweat on my temples, hair in my mouth. “You don’t know me.”
“I knowexactlywho you are.”
I growl, actually growl, and charge. This time I catch him in the chest with both hands. He stumbles back a step, surprised.
It feels good.
No, it feelspowerful.
My blood’s buzzing, hot in my veins. I hit again and again. He dodges most of it, but not all. He’s letting me. Testing me.
“You want to make them pay?” he snarls. “Preston. Sam. Every person who’s ever hurt you?”
“Yes,” I hiss.
“Then hit me like you mean it.”
I scream with rage, grief, everything I’ve swallowed for months, and drive my fist toward his jaw. I miss. I swing again. Hit his shoulder. Harder this time. It jolts up my arm.
“Better,” he mutters. “Still too slow.”
He steps into me, fast. I flinch, then shove back with all my weight. My elbow clips his ribs. His breath hitches.
We’re moving now. Circling. Striking. I’m gasping for air, but I don’t stop. Ican’tstop.
I slap him. Right across the face. Not hard. Not soft. The sound cracks through the air.
His jaw tics. His eyes flash.
And hesmiles.
Not sweet. Not kind. Something dangerous. Wicked. Admiring.
“Nice,” he says. “Give me more.”
I shove him again, both hands on his chest. He lets me. Heat radiates through my palms, his body solid and unforgiving.
