Damn him.
“So you know, I’m working on kicks next,” I growl, not because he asked but because the silence is provoking. Sweat streams down my temples and into my mouth, but I don’t stop my over-the-top workout session.
“I see,” Taurus replies, his voice flat. He uncrosses his arms and sets the bottle down, never taking his eyes off me. I know he’ll want to argue later—but he’ll decide what to say after he sees how long I can go before collapsing. “Go on, then.”
I ramp it up, throwing knees and elbows, and the bag thumps into my body as it swings back. My torso is a bruise in progress, but I’ll heal that quickly. I lose myself in the violence, allowing the music and the pain to flatten the day into something simple to digest. Physical pain isn’t like emotional injury—it’s so much easier to deal with because it has a stopping point.
Taurus finally pushes away from the wall and crosses the floor in three measured strides. He’s barefoot, like me, but his gait is softer, practiced. He hops up onto the pommel horse and perches there with his knees drawn up. I know what he wants; he wants to see if I’ll lose control, if I’ll break the bag, or the chain, or myself. He wants to see if I’ll cry, or bleed, or both. Most of all, he wants to intervene, but knows that I don’t want him to.
I keep going until my calves seize, and my lungs threaten mutiny. Then, at last, I let the bag whirl to a stop. My handsare shredded and blood trickles down my wrists and pools in my palms. I tear the remaining tape off with my teeth, tasting the iron tang of my blood, and let it drop to the ground with a grunt. Walking away from the bag, I lick my knuckles clean, use a towel to dry my hands, and then dip my palms in the chalk.
Standing in front of the uneven bars, I jump up, swinging, twisting, and gripping as I move back and forth. I didn’t prepare myself for gymnastics this morning, so I’ll be sore when I’m done. The room is loud with my breathing, but I ignore it. The bar’s surface is lacquered with sweat, skin oil, and previous sessions’ chalk.
I catch the lower bar as I jump, pain flaring into my forearms as my body swings. The motion is simple because of long-standing muscle memory; I did this so many times when I was younger that I could never forget it. I twist, rotate, and grip tighter, ignoring how palms stick and then tear away with every revolution. I didn’t plan for this part today, so I’ll be peeling blood and splinters out of my hands all week.
That’s okay; I’m going to do it anyway.
The bars creak under my weight, but I trust gravity and my anger to keep my momentum. My husband’s presence is a gravitational pull of its own, silent but inescapable from the horse nearby. I know he’s still watching because the orbit of his attention shifts as I rotate around the bars. He finally gives in, speaking in my mind so he doesn’t distract me.
~Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or just torture yourself for the rest of the night?~
His voice is an intrusion, a pressure like a hand at the base of my skull. We don’t say things like this out loud when we’re stuck ina loop like this. I hear him all the same, demanding an answer I don’t want to give. I let my body flip over the bar, a neat pullover, and hang upside down for a moment, my hair sweeping over the ground as blood rushes to my face.
I don’t respond yet because I don’t know how. The words jam up behind my teeth, and I grit them as I try not to wail my frustration into the rafters of the room. He’s still looking at me expectantly, as I do what he hates most. I hold the silence and continue working while I try to find an explanation that won’t release all the internal pain at once.
Kipping up, I swing to the top bar. The burn races up my arms as I lock my elbows and hold the handstand. The tendons in my shoulders threaten to give, and my arms shake with the effort. I’m not as strong as I need to be, but that’s why I keep doing this, over and over, until the repetition erases every other thought.
It’s both penance and training for the job that helps get away from all this nonsense.
Every muscle fiber is calculating how long I can keep this up before my tired body fails. My mind is full of stubborn determination and injured self-worth. I ignore the sweat stinging my eyes, the open wounds leaving speckled prints on the bars, and even my husband offering an olive branch to sanity. None of that will fix the problems that overwhelmed me today, but it might keep me from collapsing in grief.
I let go, somersaulting in the air, and for a split second the world stops moving. Then I land hard, my heels slapping the mat, and the pain rockets up my spine. I stagger, catching myself, as I walk to the beam. I pause only to suck the blood and chalk off my palms before I climb onto it.
Taurus is still perched on the pommel horse, his arms crossed, and his face perfectly impassive. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, just tracks me like the predator he is. There will be a point when he can’t stop himself from getting involved, but for the moment, we’re playing chicken until one of us breaks.
I don’t want it to be me; I’ve broken enough today.
He watches as I start my routine: a cartwheel, a pair of crisp jumps, and then a turn that nearly buckles my knees. I grit my teeth through it, even though my vision tunnels. My pulse is a tidal roar in my ears. All the while, I know Taurus is waiting for me to finally ask for help, or at least ask for something. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, taste more blood, and smile around it.
Before I can mount the beam again, my husband is by my side in an instant. “So help me, woman. If you want to abuse yourself, let’s go toe to toe. We’ll mix it up properly. The silent treatment is making me feel as if I did something wrong. If I did, let’s have it out.”
Blinking at him, I shake my head. “It’s not about you.”
I climb onto the beam and cartwheel down to the end, sliding into a full split. Leaning down over my legs, I grasp the leather, pushing up into another handstand. His demon feels close to the surface—that means he’s angry as hell. He’s breathing hard as he walks to where I’m walking on my hands.
“I bloody know what it’s about. It’s about what Talia said to you last night. I know you, wife. You came home from that wretched karaoke place with Sampson and went on a walk in the gardens.”
I nod, but it probably doesn’t look right upside down.
“The two of you went down to the beach and sat in the waves, talking about that idiotic meeting and what’s happening after it. All the work, the requests, the socializing—none of it will ever end. You didn’t get upset then because when it’s ugly inside you, it takes overnight for you to process and restructure. That’s why there’s hell to pay today.”
Shrugging, I sigh. “I did my job. In fact, I did three jobs. Not a flaw to be found in any of them.” I study the room, pondering a long trampoline session that should leave me barely able to move when I’m done.
“You’ll keep me and the goddess out of this because it’s your past—you always do that. I can’t stop you from doing that, but it fucking pisses me off. No family ever healed by not including one another when one of them is bleeding.” He spins on his heel and heads for the door. “If you want me, you know where to find me. I won’t sit here and watch you beat yourself up without letting me help.”
I frown. “You want to help beat me up?”
His roar tells me he doesn’t find that amusing—which it isn’t supposed to be. “I want to help you through whatever is hurting you. You can’t show me the wounds, make me watch you bleed, and feel your pain if I can’t help you. It’s not fair. I won’t mention how guilty Talia feels.”
