His fist connects with my ribs before I fully settle, the impact knocking the air from my lungs in a sharp rush that feels like punishment, like he’s not easing me into this, not giving me a second to think.
Good.
I hit back, harder, letting it all out in the first swing, then the next, falling into the rhythm of it as we move across the canvas, boots shifting, breath coming faster, heavier, the sound of gloves hitting flesh echoing through the barn.
He doesn’t go easy.
Never has.
Every hit lands with purpose, with weight, like he’s trying to knock whatever the hell is wrong with me loose, and I give it right back, swinging harder, faster, letting the anger, the frustration, the confusion bleed into every punch.
But my head’s not in it.
Not really.
Because it keeps pulling me back.
To her.
To the way her breath hitched like she couldn’t get enough air in.
To the way her body froze under his hand.
To the way she looked at me after, like I was the only thing keeping her from breaking.
I take a hit straight to the face, hard enough that my head snaps to the side, copper flooding my mouth as I taste blood.
“Focus,” Jude mutters.
I wipe my lip with the back of my hand, shaking it off, but the truth is I can’t.
Because every time I close my eyes, I see that moment again.
That look.
And I feel it.
That urge.
That need to break something, to make it right in the only way I know how.
I go at him harder, faster, letting it all out, pushing until my muscles burn and my lungs feel like they’re tearing open, until the edge starts to dull just enough that I can breathe without feeling like I’m about to snap.
Time blurs.
Everything narrows down to movement, impact, breath.
Until finally, I slow.
My arms heavy.
My chest heaving.
The tension not gone, but quieter.
Contained.
Jude lowers his hands slightly, watching me in that same silent way, like he’s already pieced it together.
