But at what cost? And to whom?
My fingers tremble slightly as I finish wrapping the tape around my hand, the anxiety simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for any excuse to break free. I force myself to take a deep breath, to focus on the task at hand, but it’s impossible to ignore the tightness in my chest, the way my heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice.
It’s been five days since my guys were taken. Five days of searching, of planning, of trying to hold on to hope, even as the reality of our situation becomes clearer. And yet, we’re no closer to finding them.
The thought makes my stomach churn, a sick feeling that spreads through my entire body. I’ve tried to push it down, to focus on what needs to be done, but it’s always there, gnawing at the edges of my mind.
Oliver asked for a full twenty-four hours with the trackers after finally getting the okay to tear them apart. He’s been working non-stop, trying to get any kind of signal, any clue that might lead us to them. I know he’s doing everything he can, and I understand the threat that’s waiting for us outside this compound.
Gus is vicious, ruthless, and he won’t stop until he gets what he wants—apparently me. But that doesn’t stop the fear, the overwhelming terror of what might be happening to the guys out there.
Every second that passes, I wonder if Gage is standing in front of Maddox like he did when they were kids. Is he protecting his brothers? If so, at what personal cost? Is he okay? Are any of them?
My throat constricts as my mind flickers back to the stories they’ve told me. The hell Augustus has rained down on them their entire lives. The games he plays. The violence he inflicts.
How bad is it now?
I hate that we’re no closer to finding them. I hate that we’re stuck here, waiting, when every second could mean the difference between life and death for them. My chest tightens further, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I exhale sharply, trying to release the tension, but it only comes back stronger.
My eyes drift to the punching bags as my muscles cry out for relief. Before I met the guys, I’d run when I felt like this. Run for miles and miles. Up and down the steep San Francisco hills, through parks, to the beach. I’d do every and anything I could to expel the anxious tension pulsing through me, threatening an impending panic attack.
I could hit the treadmill, but it doesn’t give the same release anymore. After all my training sessions with the guys, I can only think of one thing that will.
I’m surprised when my eyes lock onto the older French man from the debriefing the other day. He’s beating the shit out of a punching bag, each strike landing with a resounding thud that echoes through the busy gym.
His form is impeccable, every movement precise, controlled. I tilt my head slightly, watching the way his muscles ripple beneath his shirt, the sheer power behind each punch. It’s almost hypnotic, the way he channels his aggression. His focus is so complete that it’s like nothing else in the world exists.
I wonder what he’s thinking. What drives him to hit that bag with such intensity?
Is it anger? Fear? Or is it just a way to keep himself from thinking too much, from feeling too much, the same way I’m trying to?
I shake my head slightly, pulling my attention back to my own hands. I’m not here to watch him, to analyze someone else’s emotions. I’m here because I need to do something,anything, to keep from losing my mind.
Hunter’s been running himself ragged these past few days, refusing to rest even when it’s clear his body is screaming for it. I had to practically drag him to the med bay earlier, forcing him to let the doctors check his gunshot wound. He’s been out of bed too long, pushing himself too hard, and I’m terrified he’s going to collapse before we get a chance to find the others.
I know he’s trying to stay strong for me, for all of us, but I can see the toll it’s taking on him. He needs to heal, to recover, but there’s no time.
No time for any of us to be weak.
The anxiety tightens its grip on me again, and I ball my hands into fists, the tape pulling taut against my skin. I can’t afford to let this get to me. I need to stay focused, to stay strong, but the weight of everything is crushing me, pressing down until it feels like I’m suffocating.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to center myself, but all I see is their faces. Gage, Maddox, Nyxon, Stone—they’re out there somewhere, and I’m stuck here, useless, while they suffer. I don’t know what’s happening to them, but I can imagine it, the fear and pain they must be enduring. And the worst part is that I can’t do anything about it. I can’t help them.
A tear slips down my cheek, and I swipe it away angrily. This isn’t the time for tears. This is the time to fight, to do whatever it takes to get them back.
I open my eyes, fixing them on the punching bag across the room. The man is still going at it, his strikes relentless, like he’s trying to beat the very air out of the bag. Jealousy fills me. I want that. Ineedit.
I push myself to my feet, shaking off the lingering anxiety as best I can. I need to move, to hit something, to feel the burn in my muscles and the sweat on my skin. It’s the only way I know how to deal with this, the only way to keep fromdrowning, drowning, drowning.
As I approach the bag next to his, he glances at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, we just look at each other, two strangers in the middle of this cold, empty gym, both of us fighting our own battles.
Then he gives a slight nod, an acknowledgment of sorts, before turning back to his own bag.
I follow suit, throwing the first punch with more force than necessary. The impact reverberates up my arm, grounding me, pulling me back from the edge. In my head, I can hear Nyx’s instructions. Can picture Maddox circling me with his dimples on full display. I can see the calculator on Gage’s face as he picks apart my form. And Stone…God, I can’t help it. I can see him in the corner, winding a pink rope around his hand as he gives methat look. The one that sends shivers down my spine.
And in front of all of them, I see Hunter.
My lighthouse. My beacon in the dark. The light guiding me home.
