38. Fighting Form
38
FIGHTING FORM
Maya waited until Ronan’s footsteps faded before she unleashed her first punch at the heavy bag. The impact jarred through her wrapped knuckles, satisfaction mixing with fury. Another punch. And another. Each one harder than the last.
Wounded warrior act. Right.
She’d fallen for it like some rookie. Let herself believe there was something real beneath those walls he built. That all those moments of connection—finishing each other’s tactical thoughts, moving in perfect sync during the op, the way he’d looked at her when he thought no one was watching—meant something.
The bag swung wildly as she landed a particularly vicious combination. Her father’s voice cut through the rhythm of her strikes.
“Your elbow is dropping.”
“Not now, Dad.” She caught the bag, steadying it, refusing to turn around.
“Want to talk about it?”
Seriously? Hard no.
As if she needed to walk her father through the way she’d let herself get played by another emotionally unavailable man with a hero complex. “Nope.”
She heard him inhale sharply and immediately regretted the harsh response. It wasn’t his fault her mother had left them both. Just like it wasn’t his fault Maya had apparently inherited his terrible taste in partners.
“Maya—”
“I’m sorry.” She finally turned to face him, saw the hurt in his eyes that he tried to hide. “That wasn’t fair. I’m just ...”
“Angry?” His smile was gentle. “I remember that feeling.”
“I thought ...” She slammed another punch into the bag, her voice tight. “I thought we were building something. Something real. I’m such an idiot.”
“You’re many things, sweetheart. An idiot isn’t one of them.”
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe she hadn’t completely misread everything. But the memory of Ronan’s cold dismissal, the way he wouldn’t even look at her anymore, made her jaw clench.
“I need to shower.” She unwrapped her hands with sharp, angry movements. “Got a briefing to prep for.”
Her father stepped aside, letting her pass, but his quiet words followed her: “Sometimes people push away what they want most because they’re afraid of losing it.”
“Yeah?” She paused at the door. “Well, mission accomplished there.”
The hallway offered no escape from her thoughts. Every corner held some memory—Ronan’s laughter during their late-night strategy session, the brush of his shoulder against hers as they reviewed intel, that moment in the van when she’d thought ...
“Maya!”
She turned to find Zara hurrying toward her, tablet in hand, excitement radiating from every movement.
Zara grabbed her arm. “We cracked it. The medical records, the money trail, everything. Conference room, now. Everyone’s assembling.”
Maya glanced down at her workout clothes, then at her new friend’s urgent expression. “Five minutes?”
As she hurried toward her room, she pushed everything else aside. She was good at that—compartmentalizing, focusing on the mission. It’s what made her excellent at her job.
It’s also what made her terrible at relationships.