Chapter Eight
KHALIDA
Left. Right. Hook.
Every time Khalida connected with the hard leather bag, a small part of her rejoiced at the pain and the blood the impact caused on her bare knuckles.
It was only momentary, but it was just enough to remind her she was alive.
She was fueled by a never-ending fire that was fanned by her self-loathing.
Anger was better than despair and was far easier to mold into a weapon.
It had been Meraki’s cautious approach after she’d stalked out of the library that alerted her.
And then it had slammed into her—every part of her body, down to her cells, had cried out in agony.
She had almost, no she had—she wouldn’t show herself any mercy—forgotten what day it was tomorrow.
Khalida hit the bag harder. Had all but forgotten about the ritual she’d undertaken alone every single year for more than five centuries.
She willed the pain to reverberate through her entire body—she didn’t deserve not to be in pain, for the wounds to only be temporary.
She wanted the physical evidence to last as long as the emotional scars she still carried.
The bag spun in circles as she landed another punch.
Sand spilled out, floating to the ground as she grunted, her breath coming out in short bursts.
The encounter with Chaucer in the library had been hours ago, and if she looked through the slit windows bordered with thick black frames surrounding the entire gymnasium, she would have noticed the waning moonlight and the encroaching darkness. The beginning of an obsidian night sky.
But she didn’t look and gave in to the boxing drill that was second nature.
She emptied her mind, everything else forgotten except for the bag in front of her and how many strikes it would take to decimate it.
She wanted to stop thinking and focus on the physical pain she craved.
She wanted to hit the bag so damn hard, all she would hear is the thud of soft flesh on hard leather, and then she wouldn’t be able to hear the small voice in her head that continued to rise in crescendo.
The voice that sounded eerily like her own, the voice that spewed words that were far more lethal than any weapon she wielded.
Any other day, she could outrun her past, but not today.
She embraced the anger because tomorrow was not about her.
At this time of night, the gym was empty, and the sound of the straining leather punching bag and her heavy breathing echoed loudly.
The room was filled with the layered scents of her sweat, tears, and anger.
She was alone because the only other occupant had left when she had walked in.
Khalida wasn’t sure if it was because they had finished their workout or because of the mood she was in, but she didn’t care.
She much preferred not to have an audience.
Repeating the sequence, she silently danced around the bag, keeping her movement light.
The leather groaned against the impact as small droplets of sweat and blood dripped off the bag. Her knuckles stung, urging her onwards.
Another jab, and this time an old memory rushed forward.
For a moment she was a young child, no older than five years of age, who had been presented to Anhur by her mother at House Azaes’s High Court before being abandoned in a strange land.
Too young to understand the politics, she had watched her mother leave without a backward glance, as she stood with silent tears rolling down her face.
It would be over a century before she would come close to believing she had a family and a place to call home, but then she had watched it crumble into tiny pieces when Talik had left.
It had taken decades to pick the pieces up and put them back together, but they never seemed to fit the same way.
Left. Right. Hook.
She continued to move as sweat ran down her body, her hair plastered along her back and face.
She pushed some silver strands behind her ear, not slowing down as she ducked and weaved at the imaginary offense, glad that she had traded her uniform for black tights and a sports bra.
Her uniform was designed to protect her, but she lost some of her mobility under the restrictive material.
The consort mark tingled. She ignored it, continuing the moves as she added knees and kicks to the sequence.
Minutes passed, but the tingle in her wrist continued. Talik wasn’t taking the hint that he should leave.
Khalida kicked the bag, sending it flying across the room with a trail of sand behind it, finally landing with a thump as it hit the nearest steel beam.
The gym master was going to be annoyed at the inconvenience, but it wasn’t the first time she or the guards had damaged the bags. And likely wouldn’t be the last.
“Are you imagining anyone in particular?” Talik asked.
He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed as he looked her over. Slowly. She should have bristled under the stare, but she was long past caring—sweaty and nowhere near as exhausted as she needed to be to get through the night. He was back in the matte uniform.
“Catch.”
She caught the towel and wiped her face and chest. Her knuckles were battered, but the skin quickly knitted itself together. The marks would last a handful of minutes, if she was lucky.
Talik’s gaze lingered for a second longer than it should have on her chest.
“Did you run out of suits to wear?”
Talik looked down and smiled ruefully. “I wasn’t sure what mood you would be in.”
“I’m in the mood that doesn’t want to see anyone...especially you,” Khalida said as she unbraided her hair and placed it in a high ponytail. The slick strands stuck to her, but she ignored it. She tapped her foot. “And you are here because...”
Something about Talik brought out the worst in her, but it hadn’t always been like that. And right now, she was itching for a fight against someone who could actually challenge her. Make it worth her while.
“I’m here to discuss the idiotic plan of both of us going to Rome,” Talik said. “A recon that sounds suspiciously like a one-way trip if we get caught.”
His voice was neutral, but it was the first hint that he had also disagreed with them teaming up. Probably knew that it would likely end in bloodshed. His.
Khalida snorted. Her skill set was much better used face-to-face, but she could do the missions just as well as Talik. Despite her general misgivings, she did trust Dante in this. He would not tolerate any risk to Rieka. “Missing the whole point of a covert recon—not to be observed.”
The catacombs had been sealed for centuries, likely looted prior to being closed off. Nothing but bones and dust, and the occasional rodent, was what she was expecting, not that she wasn’t going in prepared.
“I am aware of what a recon entails,” Talik added drolly. “Despite what Sypha said, I don’t think both of us need to go.”
Khalida took a step back and laughed. “And you are graciously bowing out. Good. I much prefer to work with my own team.”
She trusted every one of her immortals with her life. It wouldn’t be a hard decision to select a replacement for Talik.
A dark look passed over Talik’s features. Khalida silently questioned if it had been real or the dimming of one of the stupidly bright overhead lights.
“You could stay and find a way to open the vault to start mapping the ancient tunnels beneath the Arx,” Talik said nonchalantly before he shrugged, as if he was helping her. “I also assume you would not want to miss the birth of your half-sibling.”
Talik knew exactly what buttons to press to get a reaction.
And her loyalty to her family was one of them.
Anhur’s human consort was heavily pregnant, and no one was sure, even with the medical scans, if the child would be born at nine months of gestation, as most humans were, or the Atlantean timeline closer to fifteen months.
Hybrid births were almost impossible to estimate a delivery time frame.
She walked toward Talik and stopped just out of his reach.
He hadn’t moved. His lazy posture made her want to snap.
His black gaze was stoic despite the slight curve of his lips.
Taunting her was one of his favorite pastimes.
It was okay. She knew exactly how to get back at him.
And she wasn’t above using all her assets.
I could never decide what I liked more. Your perfect tits or your pussy.
His words from earlier reverberated through her mind. She ignored the rest of the memory. And the way her body instantly heated up.
She took a deep breath as his gaze lowered to her breasts. Her black sports bra showed her ample size to the best advantage. It was the distraction she needed.
Lashing out with her left leg, she swept Talik off his feet. He hit the ground with a thud. It shouldn’t have been so enjoyable to watch, but she was petty.
Talik looked surprised for a second before he gracefully jumped to his feet. He wiped off specks of rubber from the gym mat and smirked. “Kiki, you only had to ask if I wanted to play.”
“I already told you not to call me that stupid nickname,” Khalida said between clenched teeth. She forced the fury down and made her way to another punching bag. “For the record, I do not want to play.”
“Pity.”
She stopped as she slowly turned, her fists clenched beside her. He was trying to bait her, and in most cases, she would have walked away. Right now, the urge to commit some form of violence was rushing through her. And she’d never walked from a challenge given by Talik. “Three rounds. No weapons.”
Talik raised an eyebrow and looked around the empty gym. “There isn’t anyone to adjudicate.”
“Should I be worried about you fighting dirty? Has it been a while?”
He laughed. The sound sent an alarming wave of warmth through her.
“Want to place a friendly wager?” Talik asked.
“We aren’t friends.”