Chapter 13
13
REIGN
Paralyzed - NF
The leather chair creaks as I shift uncomfortably, staring at the tiny clock on the therapist’s desk. It’s modern but soft, like everything else in her office—warm wood tones, muted beige walls, and shelves packed with books that probably hold all the answers I don’t want to hear. There’s a framed photograph of the ocean behind her, and the edges of a salt lamp glowing softly on the side table. It’s designed to feel safe, like you can spill your guts here and not hate yourself for it later.
But I hate every second of it.
Dr. Mara Kelly sits across from me, legs crossed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She’s in her late forties, with streaks of silver running through her dark curls, and her hazel eyes have a way of cutting right through whatever wall I’m trying to put up. She doesn’t push; she doesn’t prod. She waits, like she knows I’ll talk eventually, even if it takes me the entire damn session.
“How’s your sleep been?” she asks, her voice calm and even, like a stone skipping across still water.
“Fine,” I lie, shifting in the chair again.
Her brow lifts slightly, and she jots something down in her notebook. “That’s good to hear. The nightmares aren’t bothering you as much?”
I want to laugh, but it sticks in my throat. “I said I’m fine, didn’t I?”
She doesn’t react, just waits like she always does. I drag my hand down my face, the coarse stubble scraping my palm. It’s exhausting, being in this room. The silence here isn’t peaceful; it’s loud, echoing every thought I try to bury. And somehow, she knows that. She lets it sit until I finally crack.
“It’s not like they’re going away,” I admit, my voice low. “The nightmares. The flashbacks. They’re still there.”
Her nod is slow, deliberate. “And how are you handling them?”
I bark out a laugh this time, sharp and humorless. “How do you think?”
Her pen pauses, and she leans forward slightly, her tone softening. “Reign, you can’t keep trying to numb the pain with alcohol or fighting. It’s not sustainable.”
“Sobriety feels worse,” I snap, my words spilling out before I can stop them. “Every sober second, I’m stuck with it. The crash. Cruz. All of it. I’d rather feel nothing.”
Her gaze softens, but it doesn’t pity me. It never does. That’s the only reason I keep coming back here—because she listens without trying to fix me. “It’s hard to sit with those feelings, I know. But the only way through them is to face them, not bury them.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Yeah, well, burying them works just fine for me.”
She doesn’t argue, just nods like she knows the battle’s lost for today. “You said last week that opening up felt impossible, but you mentioned a shift recently. You said you talked to someone—Lena, right?”
The mention of her name sends a pang through my chest. I don’t answer right away, but the memory creeps in anyway—her sharp, steady gaze on me as I spilled secrets I hadn’t even told myself. It was terrifying. And... nice.
“Yeah,” I admit, grudgingly. “I told her some things.”
Dr. Kelly’s expression remains calm, but there’s a subtle shift in her eyes, a flicker of interest. “Who is Lena?” she asks, her tone gentle but probing.
I hesitate, the question catching me off guard. “She was Cruz’s girlfriend,” I mutter, my gaze dropping to my hands. “I guess... we’re just trying to figure things out together. She’s someone I can talk to. Makes things feel a little easier.”
Dr. Kelly nods slowly, her pen pausing midair. “That makes sense,” she says, her voice soft but knowing. “The two of you have both suffered the same kind of loss. It’s no wonder you find it easier to open up to her. You can relate to each other’s pain in ways no one else can.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I rub the back of my neck, feeling the heat of the conversation burning into me. It feels like she’s digging too deep, but at the same time, there’s a strange comfort in the way she understands.
She jots something down in her notes, sensing the shift in the room. I feel my walls creeping back up, a natural defense. I shift in my seat, signaling that I’m done with the conversation. She takes the hint without pushing.
When the session ends, I’m up and out of the door before she can say anything else. I’m already half out the door, trying to push the weight of everything back inside me where it’s easier to ignore.
The Iron Pit is buzzing when I arrive, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and adrenaline. It’s a place that feels alive in a way I don’t, and that’s why I keep coming back. The lights are dim, flickering overhead, the concrete walls scrawled with graffiti in angry streaks of red and black. The smell of sweat and rust clings to everything, mixed with the faint tang of blood. It’s chaotic, raw, and exactly the kind of noise I need to drown out my own thoughts.
I sign up for a fight without thinking, scribbling my name on the clipboard like I’m signing a confession. The guy running the table barely looks up, just gives me a quick nod and motions toward the makeshift ring in the center of the room. The crowd swells around it, bodies packed tightly together, a cacophony of shouts and laughter echoing off the concrete walls.
My name is called faster than I expect, and I strip off my hoodie, tossing it onto a bench nearby. The weight in my chest grows heavier as I step forward, but I shove it down, letting the roar of the crowd drown it out. The air is thick with sweat and anticipation as I take in the scene around me.
I pull off my shirt, revealing the array of tattoos that snake across my chest, arms, and stomach. The ink is a mix of old and new, faded memories and recent regrets etched into my skin. My abs flex as I move, but the tightness in my core doesn’t come from strength—it’s the tension, the nerves. My body feels like a battle map, each scar telling its own story.
I’m wearing loose-fitting shorts, the waistband riding low, revealing the edge of my Calvin Klein boxers. My Air Jordans squeak against the mat as I step forward, the familiar feel of them giving me a sense of false confidence. My hands are wrapped, but I don’t know why I bother. They’re already so cut up from the fights, the damage done is more than the wrap could ever fix. But I do it anyway, as if it’ll somehow make me feel like I’m still in control. It probably does more harm than good at this point.
The crowd’s noise is a distant hum in my ears, and as I step into the ring, I push the weight on my chest aside for now.
My opponent climbs into the ring, and my stomach tightens. The guy is massive, at least six-four, with arms like tree trunks and a chest that looks like it’s carved from stone. His shaved head gleams under the dim lights, a faint scar running from his temple to his jawline. He sneers at me, bouncing on his feet with the kind of swagger that says he’s done this more times than he can count.
The bell clangs, and he comes at me fast. His fighting style is brutal, all power and speed, no finesse. His fists fly at me like wrecking balls, and I barely have time to raise my arms before the first punch connects with my jaw. Pain blooms sharp and immediate, grounding me in a way nothing else can. It’s not pleasant, but it’s real, and for a second, it’s all that matters.
I stagger back, shaking off the hit, and the crowd erupts into cheers and jeers. They want blood. They want a show.
“Come on, pretty boy,” my opponent taunts, his voice a low growl. “That all you got?”
The words fuel something in me, and I charge forward, ducking under his swing and driving my fist into his ribs. He grunts, but he barely flinches, spinning around to catch me with a backhanded punch that sends me reeling. The taste of copper fills my mouth, but I spit it out, wiping my lip with the back of my hand.
The fight blurs into a series of blows and blocks, his sheer strength against my speed and determination. He’s relentless, raining punches down like a storm, but I don’t stop. I won’t. Each hit I take chips away at the weight in my chest, and each punch I throw is a desperate plea for release.
I catch him with a jab to the jaw, then follow it with a hook to his temple. He stumbles, and the crowd roars. They’re on their feet now, screaming and chanting, their voices a chaotic mix of encouragement and bloodlust.
I don’t stop. I can’t. I drive my fist into his gut, feeling the impact reverberate through my arm. He doubles over, and I seize the opening, slamming my elbow into the side of his head. He goes down hard, crashing onto the concrete with a thud that silences the crowd for a moment.
The ref steps in, raising my arm in victory, but I barely notice. My chest is heaving, my fists trembling as I stare down at my opponent. He’s out cold, blood trickling from a split lip, and for a second, I feel something close to satisfaction. But it fades as quickly as it came, leaving me hollow.
The crowd erupts again, and I climb out of the ring, my head pounding. My knuckles are raw and bloody, and every muscle in my body aches. I’m halfway to the locker room when a voice cuts through the noise.
“Hey, champ.”
I turn to see a girl standing near the edge of the crowd, her copper colored hair teased into loose waves that tumble over her shoulders. Her low-cut tank top leaves little to the imagination, and she’s holding a beer in one hand, offering it to me with a coy smile. Her eyes rake over me, lingering on the blood smeared across my jaw.
“That was one hell of a fight,” she says, stepping closer. “You’re... intense.”
I take the beer from her, the cold bottle soothing against my raw knuckles, but I barely register her words. Her voice is just background noise, something to fill the silence. I take a long swig, the bitterness washing over my tongue, and nod vaguely in her direction.
“You wanna—” she starts, but I cut her off with a sharp shake of my head.
“Not tonight,” I mutter, brushing past her.
I don’t look back, and I don’t hear whatever response she has. My thoughts are elsewhere, tangled up in a pair of sharp green eyes and the memory of a voice that’s both a balm and a blade. Lena. Her name lingers in my mind like a whisper, even though it shouldn’t.
The guilt sits heavy in my chest, twisting with every step I take toward the exit. I shouldn’t be thinking about her. Not like this. Not when every second feels like I’m betraying Cruz. But no matter how hard I try to push her from my mind, she’s still there, her voice cutting through the noise and grounding me in a way the fight never could.
The night air bites at my skin as I step out of the warehouse, the noise of the Iron Pit fading behind me. My hood’s up, my hands shoved into my pockets, but the cold still seeps into my bones. My knuckles throb, and my jaw aches, but it’s nothing compared to the hollowness in my chest.
I’m halfway to my car when I hear it.
“Reign.”
The voice is sharp, cutting through the quiet. I glance back and feel my stomach sink. Draygon and Wolfe stand by the exit, their expressions as grim as the air around us.
Draygon looks like he always does—sharp and put together, but with that edge that makes you think twice. Black jeans, a button-down left open just enough to show off the ink on his chest—Korean script mixed with some intricate designs. His hair’s slicked back, and his jaw’s tight, that fire in his eyes unmistakable.
Next to him, Wolfe leans casually, his shaggy blonde hair falling over his face like he didn’t bother to do a damn thing with it, yet somehow the fucker still pulls it off.
He’s puffing on a joint, the smoke swirling around him as he stands with an easy, laid-back stance. Dressed in jeans and a simple white T-shirt, he looks like someone who doesn’t care to be noticed—but the intensity in his eyes says otherwise. His family’s back home in Canada, and when he first came here, he didn’t know a soul. He was just another stranger trying to find his place in a world that didn’t feel like home. We’re all he’s got.
“What now?” I mutter, turning away and heading for my car.
“Man, fucking stop,” Draygon snaps, his voice like a whip. “What the fuck are you doing, Reign?”
I don’t stop. “None of your business.”
“Like hell it isn’t.” Draygon’s footsteps echo behind me, quick and angry. He cuts in front of me, blocking my path with that same damn self-righteous glare he always uses when he’s pissed. “What is this? You think we don’t hear about what you’re doing? The fights, the drinking—this crap ends tonight.”
“Move,” I growl, my fists clenching.
Draygon doesn’t budge. “No. We’re done sitting back while you act like this is normal for you when everyone who knows you, knows it isn’t.”
“Since when do you care?” I snap, my voice rising.
“You seriously think we don’t give a shit? You think we like watching you destroy yourself?” Draygon fires back. “Cause we fucking don’t. We really fucking know, and we’re not going to put up with it anymore.”
Wolfe steps forward, his voice calmer but no less firm. “We care about you, Reign. Thats exactly why you can’t keep doing this. The fights, the drinking—you’re running yourself into the ground, man.”
“I didn’t ask for your goddamn concern,” I spit, stepping closer to Wolfe. He doesn’t flinch, just meets my glare with a steady, disappointed gaze.
“You didn’t have to,” Wolfe says evenly. “You’re family. And family doesn’t just stand by while one of their own loses himself.”
“Spare me the lecture,” I snap. “You want to help? Stay the fuck out of my way.”
Draygon lets out a harsh laugh, his voice laced with fury. “Stay out of your way? That’s your solution? Just let you drink yourself to death and fight until you can’t stand anymore?”
I shove past him, but Draygon grabs my arm, spinning me around. His temper snaps like a rubber band stretched too far.
“You are so fucking selfish, you know that?” he shouts, his voice sharp and furious. “You think this is just about you? You think we’re here because we don’t have better shit to do than chase you down to some underground pit like you’re some—some—” He cuts himself off, and suddenly he’s swearing in rapid-fire Korean, his words sharp and biting.
Even Wolfe looks a little taken aback. When Draygon switches to Korean, it means he’s beyond done.
“Are you finished?” I snarl, my voice low and dangerous.
Draygon steps closer, his jaw tight, his words like venom. “Not even fucking close. You’re an asshole, Reign. But worse than that, you’re a fucking coward. You think you can punch and drink your way through this? That you can outrun whatever’s eating you alive? Well, guess what—you can’t.”
I shove him hard, and he stumbles back, his glare burning. “Get the hell off your high horse,” I growl. “You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know what it feels like to have this—this weight crushing you every second.”
“No, I don’t,” Draygon snaps. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s drowning. And you are. So stop pretending you’re fine, stop running, and start dealing with your shit.”
Wolfe steps between us, his hands raised as if to calm the storm brewing between us. “Enough. Both of you.” He looks at me, his voice steady. “Reign, we’re here because we care. You might not want to hear it, but we’re not going anywhere. We’re not going to let you keep doing this to yourself.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” I say, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I’m trying to hold back.
Wolfe’s dark eyes soften, but his tone remains firm. “No. But we can all fucking see you need it.”
“Fuck off,” I spit out. “Both of you can go to hell.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. My chest heaves with every breath, my hands shaking with a mix of anger and something else—something I don’t want to name.
I push past them, heading for my car. I hear Draygon mutter something under his breath in Korean, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
The guilt follows me all the way home.