The silence stretched, and with every second of it, the sickness in my stomach twisted because I could hear what I’d just said echoing back at me and it sounded cruel.
But I didn’t take it back.
Percival’s jaw worked. When he finally spoke, his voice was stripped down to something I barely recognized.
“I don’t believe a word of that.” Quiet with steadiness and hurt. “But if space is what you really want, I’ll go.”
He turned, walking into the trees without looking back and finally disappeared without a sound.
I stood at the tree line and watched the space where he’d been.
My chest ached, my hands shook. Everything in me screamed to call him back, but calling him back meant keeping him close, and keeping him close meant Thiago would find him.
Because Thiago had been lenient lately.
Too lenient. Loosened curfews, unlocked doors, granted training privileges. And the only explanation for that kind of generosity from a man who was hiding dark things was that it served a plan I couldn’t see yet.
Percival near this compound was a variable that plan could use.
I walked back inside and swallowed the ache whole.
By noon, my body had decided to betray me.
Wyatt threw a punch. I blocked it. The impact traveled up my forearm and into my shoulder and my balance went sideways in a way it never had before. My feet tangled and I hit the mat with my hip instead of rolling through the fall.
“You okay?” Wyatt pulled back, hands up. Late twenties, clean-cut, with the kind of earnest concern that would’ve been endearing if it wasn’t coming from a member of an organization that kept wolves in basements.
“Fine.” I stood shaking it off. “Again.”
He came at me slower this time. I ducked, pivoted, and the room tilted. My knee buckled on the recovery and I had to catch myself on the training post.
Wyatt stopped completely. “That’s the third time this morning.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You look pale.”
“I’m always pale. Redhead genetics.” I waved him off. “Can we keep going?”
We kept going. But the wrongness stayed.
My arms were slower, my lungs burned faster, and twice during grappling drills my stomach lurched with nausea. Mornings had been bad for the past few days. I’d been waking up with a sourness in my gut that faded by mid-morning, but today it wasn’t fading.
Today it was getting worse.
“Break,” Wyatt said, tossing me a water bottle. “Ten minutes.”
I sat against the wall and pressed the cold bottle to my forehead. Wyatt dropped down beside me, leaving a respectful distance.
“You’ve improved a lot,” he said. “Footwork especially. Your instincts are solid.”
“My instincts are telling me to throw up on your shoes.”
He laughed. “Please don’t.”
The door opened. Thiago walked in, and the easy warmth between Wyatt and me evaporated on contact.
“How’s she progressing?” Thiago asked Wyatt.
