Chapter 33 Jade
Fuck.
My knuckles split as my fist connects with the heavy bag again. It hurts, but it’s not an unwelcome feeling. This kind of pain I'm in control of; this kind of pain I can manage.
I don’t know how long I’ve been down here, but with every hit, I feel more like myself.
I’ve done everything they wanted me to do. Laid in bed with Hazel and lounged around, ate dinner, showered, and took medicine from Rick. And while I feel better in the sense of whatever was making me sick earlier, mentally, I’m still a mess.
After dinner, Hazel turned on a movie. Something she swore I would love, and she might’ve been right if I could’ve paid attention. I don’t even remember what it was called, just that there were a bunch of movies that were all connected, and kids had magic, I think.
I made a mental note to watch them properly with her later, but tonight I just wasn’t able to give anything else my focus.
I’d fucked up.
I’d let myself get comfortable, complacent even, letting myself slip up.
Rick was right. I was no good to anyone like that, and I needed to get my shit together. I’d underestimated what a lack of food and sleep could do to me now that it was something my body was used to.
I’d let stress steal my focus and control me.
That will never happen again. I wasn’t some weak, fragile girl who needed to be looked after. I’m the one the girls looked to, and I needed to make sure I was doing whatever I could to watch out for them.
The skin splits on yet another knuckle as I lash out at the bag, and I grunt in pain but keep pushing, using the pain to help focus my thoughts.
I laid in bed long after Hazel had fallen asleep, staring at the TV without really seeing anything.
My body buzzed with the urge to do something, and my mind refused to be quiet, even though I knew I could use the rest. In the end, I’d done the only thing I could think of to help.
I’d come down to the gym to wear myself out.
So far, it hasn’t been doing as much as I’d hoped it would.
After two miles on the treadmill, I’d given that up and moved to weights, but those weren't distracting enough, and I quickly moved on.
What I really want is a good fight. A way to vent my frustrations, but I knew the guys would never agree. They don’t like to fight me, even when I’m at my best. I can only imagine they would protest even more now. Not to mention, they thought I was asleep in my room.
So I found myself in a fight with the heavy bag instead, hoping it would be enough to calm my mind. It wasn’t the same as having an actual opponent, but right now, it’s the next best thing.
My fist hits hard on the bag, but as my mind wanders, my form gets sloppy, and my knuckle hits in a way that takes most of the force, sending a shock of pain up my arm.
“Fuck!” I scream out before I pull my arm back and cradle my injured hand to my chest, flexing my fingers to check the damage. I’m met with a bit more of a tingling sensation, but nothing too concerning, and after a few minutes, the feeling subsides altogether.
Thankfully.
The last thing I need is to give the guys something else to fuss over. Just the thought has me rolling my eyes as I shake out my arms and drop back into my stance to go again.
A powerful arm snakes around my stomach before I can lunge again, pulling me back against a very solid chest. I flail and fight for a moment as I panic.
I hadn’t heard anyone approach with how deep in thought I’d been, and while I know I should be safe here, it’s hard to re-train the fight-or-flight response inside of me that’s kept me alive for so long.
The hold doesn’t lessen, and after a moment, my brain works past the panic, and I relax as the familiar scent of cinnamon fills my senses.
I go limp in his hold before he finally relaxes his arm enough for me to step away.
Turning to face him, I watch as his eyes trace over me, assessing every inch of me. His gaze lingers on my hands for long enough that I steal a glance down at them. I hadn’t looked at the damage I’d done before, but seeing it now, I can understand why his attention is stuck there.
Both of my hands are bloody, with more than a few knuckles split wide.
My right hand is my dominant hand, and right now it shows.
It’s a mangled mess, blood dripping from my fingers down to the mat beneath my feet.
I wince at the sight, not because of the blood.
I have no problem with that, but I know he’s going to be upset.
I hate upsetting him.
I turn my attention away from my bleeding hands to look back up at him.
“Killer.”
That one word is full of so much emotion.
But it’s what I see in his eyes that has me reeling.
Disappointment, concern, sadness—those I can deal with, but the pity…it’s too much.
“Don’t!” I yell, shaking my head at him as I clench my hands into fists at my sides.
The split skin protests, but the pain is a welcome distraction.
I hadn’t meant to yell at him, but I can’t handle the way he’s looking at me.
I’ve seen that look so many times in my life, but I’m not the girl I used to be.
He knows that. Kratos knew me when I was pitiful, and back then, those looks from him made sense. But now?
Now, that look from is like a slap to the face. It stings.
He holds his hands up, palms out in an attempt to calm me, but it does nothing. He steps toward me, and I take a step back until my back hits the heavy bag I’d just been assaulting.
“Stop!” I demand as he continues toward me as if I hadn’t spoken. “You don’t get to look at me like that,” I croak, my voice wavering as he continues toward me, his hands still raised, and I clench my eyes closed to fight against my rising emotions.
“Killer, look at me,” he says, his voice quiet but no less demanding, and I find myself doing as he says. “I’m worried about you.” He comes to a stop right in front of me but makes no move to reach out and touch me.
I’m torn because I want him to, but at the same time, I don’t.
I want the comfort I know I’ll feel if he wraps me in his arms, but I’m pretty sure if he does that right now, I’ll break. And with every break, it gets harder and harder to put myself back together.
“Tell me what you need,” he says, his tone so close to pleading that it pulls at my chest, and I have to blink rapidly to clear my eyes.
Looking up at him again, concern shines in his eyes, and while he still looks sad, there's no pity. I’m not sure if I imagined it or if he’s just really good at hiding it, but it’s gone now, and that lets me breathe easier.
We stand there watching each other. He doesn’t rush me, and I take a moment to really think about what I need right now.
I need to feel in control, like life isn’t derailing all around me.
But more than that, I need to feel capable.
Right now, I feel weak, and that feeling scares me more than anything else.
Fear, I can deal with. I can beat my fears by standing strong, I have for years.
But weakness is dangerous. It threatens everything I’ve worked for.
It’s crippling and terrifying, and I want it gone.
“I need to feel in control. I don’t want to feel helpless ever again,” I admit, watching as understanding crosses his features.
I’d said something similar all those years ago after I’d killed his father, and we’d made a goal for ourselves.
Not only to ensure we never felt like that again, but to make sure nobody else did, either.
He nods before his eyes trail back down to my hands.
“Are you okay?” he asks me, and I flex my fingers. The cuts tug and sting, but the bleeding slowed on the worst of them and has all but stopped on the smaller ones. It’s nothing I can’t handle, and he knows it. He knows me, so when I give him a nod, he believes me.
Turning away, moves toward the mat, looking back over his shoulder at me, where I still stand in the same spot before he waves me to the mat.
“Come on, Killer, I know what you need.” The small smile on his face has me hurrying toward him.
I’ve trusted Kratos with so much in my life for so long that it’s not even a decision anymore. If he says he knows, then I believe him. I’m pretty sure he knows me better than I know myself half the time. How could I not trust him? He’s never steered me wrong, and I doubt he plans on starting now.
When he stops on the mats, dropping into a fighting stance, I can’t fight the smile that pulls at my lips.
He’s right, of course. This is exactly what I need. I just didn’t think he would be willing.
I should’ve known better. Kratos has always been there for me.
However, I might need him.
Sweat rolls down my face, back, and chest, coating me like a second skin. My breath comes in pants as I duck low to avoid another hit. Kratos isn’t pulling his punches today, and while I love that, because I don’t want to be coddled, it doesn't mean that shit doesn't hurt.
He got me really good in the ribs a few minutes ago, and I can still feel the throb that lets me know it’s going to leave a nasty bruise.
I smile at him as I spin past him, kicking out his knee as I go.
He stumbles but doesn’t go down, but I didn’t expect him to.
I take the opening that allows me to kick out again, aiming for his lower ribs, and even though my hit lands, he’s not really phased by it.
He saw it coming because he knows my fighting style.
So he hardened his core to counter the blow before he grabs my leg, yanking it to him.
Just like I hoped he would.
I let him think he’s got me for a moment. He looks up to meet my gaze, and the smile on his face says it all.
He thinks he's got me.
He should know better than that.
I slide my leg further into his hold so that the back of my knee is resting on his arm instead of my calf, helping me regain some balance.