"Felt what?"
"Whatever made you stop."
My grip tightens. His pulse beats steady under my palm. Calm. Controlled. Nothing like my own heart, which is trying to break through my ribs.
"You want to know what I felt?" I lean in until our faces are inches apart. "I felt sick. Sick of the pit, sick of the blood, sick of being their attack dog. You weren't special. You were just the one who made me realize how far gone I was."
"So I saved you."
"You didn't save shit. You were a convenient excuse."
"And yet." His thumb strokes across the tendons in my wrist. My stomach does a little flip. "Here you are. Hand on my throat. Heart racing. Pupils blown. Tell me again how you feel nothing."
I release him like he's on fire.
He doesn't move. Just stays there against the dented refrigerator, watching me with understanding I didn't ask for and don't want.
"Stay thefuckaway from me." I back toward the door. "Stay out of my way, out of my head, out of my fucking sight."
"No."
"That wasn't a request."
"And that wasn't an answer." He pushes off the refrigerator, rolling his shoulders. The imprint of my fingers is already darkening on his throat. He doesn't seem to notice. "You want me gone, make me gone. Otherwise, I'm staying. I'm helping with your mission. And I'm getting my answers, one way or another."
"I could kill you right now."
"You could." He smiles, and it transforms his face, makes him almost handsome, almost human. "But you won't. Same reason you didn't kill me in the pit. Whatever that reason is."
I leave before I prove him wrong.
Or prove him right.
The barn is the only place in this godforsaken farmhouse where I can think.
I've turned the back half into a training space. Heavy bags hanging from the rafters, mats on the floor, a rack of equipment I salvaged from various sources. The familiar smell of leather and sweat loosens the knot in my chest. Violence I understand. Violence makes sense.
That fucking asshole does not make sense.
I wrap my hands and start hitting the bag. Left jab, right cross, left hook. The impact travels up my arms, rattles my teeth, drowns out the noise in my head. Again. Harder. Until my knuckles ache and my shoulders burn and I can almost forget the feeling of his pulse under my fingers.
The barn door opens.
I don't turn around. Don't have to. I know those footsteps.
"Following me now?"
"Wanted to see what you did to my barn." Asher walks past me to examine the equipment. He's changed into workout clothes, loose pants, no shirt, and fuck him for having a body like that. All dense muscle and scar tissue, tattoos sprawling across his chest and down his arms. "Forgot I had all this shit. Not bad. Better than the pits."
"Everything's better than the pits."
"True." He picks up a roll of hand wraps, starts winding them around his knuckles. "Spar with me."
"No."
"Scared?"
"Bored." I hit the bag harder. "Find someone else to play with."
