Chapter 12 Practice Makes Perfect
Sunday had no scheduled training, but my body didn’t care. I woke early, restless, pressure building under my skin with nowhere to go. I made coffee and pulled up the camera feeds from Richard Calloway’s house the way I had every morning for weeks.
Fifty-four years old. Living alone. Still taking the same routes. I had watched him long enough to know the shape of his days. When he left. When he returned. Which doors he used, how long he stood on the porch before locking up. There were no surprises left.
Next week, while Thomas was still dealing with the fallout from Colt, Richard would be easier to reach than he’d been in years. Ten years of building toward this moment, and I was finally close enough to finish it.
Closing the app, I finished the rest of the cold coffee.
The anger was still there, sharp and familiar.
The sister I never got to bury. The family that had been wiped out and forgotten.
That loss was the reason I had come here at all.
It was still the reason I stayed, even as other things started to complicate the edges of the plan.
I unpacked the last of the boxes stacked against the wall. By the time I flattened the cardboard and carried it out to the recycling bin, the restless energy hadn’t eased.
I couldn’t sit still any longer, so I changed into purple leggings and a matching racerback, pulled a black zip-up jacket over them, and tied my hair into a high ponytail. Water bottle, earbuds, phone.
Twenty minutes later I pushed open the door to the local fighting gym.
It sat on a quiet side street between a laundromat and a shuttered convenience store.
The place smelled of old sweat and stubborn ambition, and I'd liked it from the moment I found it.
A ring took up the center, surrounded by mismatched equipment.
A handwritten schedule hung taped to the front desk.
It was quiet for a Sunday. A few people worked the machines while two men sparred in the ring. After a quick stretch, I let the music take over, shrugged off my jacket, and stepped up to an open heavy bag.
The first punch landed with a clean thud. I fell into a rhythm, letting the restlessness drain out of me one strike at a time.
My thoughts drifted to last night. Cassidy had texted this morning to confirm she was alive. Jackson had texted too. His message had been simple: good morning.
How he'd gotten my number, I didn't know. The next hit landed harder.
I wasn’t sure what had made me dance with him.
Naomi had been part of it, yes, but not all of it.
The truth was simpler and harder to admit.
There were moments in the past week when I felt less like a cold monster collecting on old debts and more like a woman who was simply alive.
The distinction mattered. While others had died, I had survived, and survival had never felt like living.
I'd forgotten what it felt like to do something because I wanted to instead of because it served the mission.
For a few stolen minutes, I'd let myself be just another woman dancing with a guy.
I could still feel the warmth of his hands on my skin.
I jabbed the bag and tried to lose myself in the rhythm, but the memory refused to fade. Frustration tightened my jaw. With a muttered curse, I let the bag swing away and stepped back. Thirty minutes had slipped by without me noticing.
After a long drink from my water bottle, I glanced toward the ring. The two men had picked up their pace—the taller one showing decent footwork while the shorter one kept telegraphing his right hand. A sharp crack echoed through the space as the taller fighter took a clean hit and stumbled.
“What a tool,” I muttered.
“You think he could have blocked that?” a voice asked from my left.
I turned. A guy on a nearby rowing machine was already looking my way, one corner of his mouth lifted. One breath told me he was a bear shifter.
“The way the guy in the blue pants is projecting,” I replied, “it wouldn’t be hard.”
His eyebrows rose. “You know fighting?”
“Some. Self-defense, a little sparring.”
He gave me an appraising look, more curious than dismissive. “Most people who say that have never taken a real hit. You spar much?”
“Enough to know what I don’t know,” I replied.
He let out a short laugh. “Fair enough.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. “I’m Tom.”
“Harper.”
He studied me for a second, then nodded toward the ring. “If you ever want real practice, I could give you some pointers. No bullshit. Most women who come in here get sold a bunch of feel-good techniques that won’t work when it actually matters.”
There it was. The subtle condescension wrapped in helpfulness.
I let a small smile touch my lips, playing along. “That would be useful. Thanks.”
His expression brightened. “Yeah? I can talk to the manager, see if we can get some ring time today. I’ll go light.”
“Appreciate it,” I said, keeping my tone even.
He stood, rolling his shoulders. “Cool. Be right back.” He paused, glancing back at me. “Don’t go anywhere, Harper.”
I went back to my workout while Tom crossed the room. The manager glanced my way with a skeptical look, checked his watch, and then nodded.
“We're on after these two,” Tom said when he returned. “About thirty minutes.”
I nodded and kept working the bag. When the current spar ended, I rewrapped my hands, took a long drink of water, and stepped toward the ring.
Finn, the manager, gave me a doubtful once-over. “Not to be that guy, but you sure about this? Tom won’t need both hands.”
He believed he was being reasonable. My cat disagreed.
“Just treat me like one of the guys,” I said, and climbed through the ropes.
Tom was already inside, bouncing lightly on his toes, loose and confident.
I rolled my neck, swung my arms, and sized him up the way I did every opponent: reach, weight distribution, old scars, the way he carried his lead shoulder.
He was assessing me too, but his gaze lingered in a different way, already convinced he knew how this would end.
Finn stepped between us, glancing at both fighters. “Keep it light. No cheap shots. Three rounds or until someone taps. Ready?”
I gave a short nod.
Tom smirked. “Ready.”
Finn backed out of the ring and slapped the canvas. “Fight.”
Almost immediately, someone near the ropes muttered, “This is a joke, right?”
A deeper voice chuckled. “Twenty bucks says she lasts thirty seconds.”
Tom stepped closer, mouth already opening with something smug. I moved first, landing a sharp uppercut, then another, and finished with a clean left cross that was fast and precise. I jumped back and raised an eyebrow.
Tom blinked, surprised, then let out a short, annoyed laugh. “Alright. Cute.”
He came at me this time. We traded blows. He was stronger than he looked and quicker than I'd expected, but still predictable. I slipped his next punch, drove two clean shots into his ribs, and heard him grunt.
“Keep that same energy,” I said.
His face darkened. Whatever restraint he'd been using disappeared. He exploded forward with real shifter speed, his fist catching my jaw hard enough to draw blood. Adrenaline lit up my system. Good. He had eighty pounds on me, and he knew how to use them.
The pace changed. Every punch carried more weight now. I gave ground when I had to, answered when I could, and punished every opening he left. A sequence I'd drilled for years split the skin beneath his left eye.
“Damn,” I said between breaths, circling him. “You're breathing pretty hard already. Need a break?”
Rage is predictable. The second the words left my mouth he lunged.
I sidestepped, changed the angle, and drove my knee into his ribs.
He folded forward and I jumped, wrapping my legs around his neck and locking the triangle choke tight as we crashed to the mat together.
He bucked hard, trying to slam me into the canvas, but I only squeezed tighter.
His movements grew more desperate with each passing second.
“She's got him,” someone said.
“Tap, man. You're done.”
Tom's hand slapped the mat twice.
I released him, crab-walked back, and got to my feet, keeping my eyes on him. You never knew how someone processed a loss. My jaw was already swelling and my ribs hurt with every breath, but I felt clearer than I had in days.
Then I slipped through the ropes and picked up my water bottle and towel. Tom was still sitting in the middle of the ring, chest heaving, the gym strangely quiet around us.
“That was fun,” I said. “Same time next Sunday?”
I winked and walked away.