Cannot stop.
My fists connect over and over—left, right, left, right—the impact reverberating up my arms, through my shoulders, settling somewhere in my chest where the grief and rage and guilt have taken up permanent residence. Sweat drips down my face, mixing with tears I am barely aware of shedding, and my lungs burn with the effort of breathing through the exertion.
But I do not stop.
The basement gym is dark except for the single overhead light I flicked on when I came down here an hour ago—or maybe it has been two hours, I have lost track of time—and the shadows press in from all sides like they are trying to smother me.
Good. Let them.
I hit the bag harder, ignoring the pain blooming across my knuckles, ignoring the way my wrists are starting to scream inprotest, ignoring everything except the need to hit something, to hurt something, to make the physical pain loud enough to drown out everything else.
Patrick's hand on my throat.
His threat against Erin.
The impossible choice he has forced on me.
The lies I am telling Dante.
Hit. Hit. Hit.
"Rosalina."
Gabriel's voice cuts through the sound of my fists connecting with leather, but I don’t acknowledge it, don’t stop, just keep hitting because stopping means thinking and thinking means falling apart.
"Rosalina, stop."
"No," I grit out between punches, my voice raw.
"Bella—"
"I said no!" I hit the bag so hard it swings wildly, the chain groaning.
I hear him move closer, his footsteps deliberate on the concrete floor, and then his hands are on my shoulders, pulling me back from the bag with firm but gentle pressure.
"Let go of me," I snap, trying to twist out of his grip.
"Not until you stop trying to destroy your hands." His voice is calm, infuriatingly calm, and it makes the rage in my chest flare hotter.
"I am fine."
"You are bleeding."
"I don’t care."
"Well I do." He spins me around to face him, and I see his expression shift from concern to alarm when he sees my hands.
I follow his gaze down and realize he is right—my knuckles are split open, blood running down my fingers and dripping onto the floor in small, dark pools. I have been hitting the bag without wraps, without gloves, without any protection at all, and my hands look like they have been through a meat grinder.
I should care about this. Should feel the pain. Should be alarmed by the amount of blood.
But I feel nothing except a distant, detached observation that yes, those are my hands, and yes, they are bleeding quite a lot.
"Fuck," Gabriel breathes, and then he is pulling me toward the bench along the wall, sitting me down with more force than is probably necessary. "Stay there."
"I am fine," I repeat, but my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
He ignores me, moving to the first aid kit mounted on the wall and returning with gauze and antiseptic and an expression that suggests he is barely holding onto his patience.
