12. Annalise
Chapter twelve
Annalise
The air’s cool enough to raise goosebumps across my arms when I step onto the worn patch of grass behind Korr's house. Dew still clings to the blades, sparkling in the early afternoon sun, and somewhere beyond the tree line, Kali lets out a lazy rumble that vibrates through the forest.
A week ago, the idea of standing on my own for more than a few minutes would've been laughable.
Today...
Today I'm going to prove I still belong in my own body.
Matt tosses a rolled-up exercise mat to me as soon as my feet touch the floor.
"I swear, if you fall before we've even started stretching, I'm telling everyone you lost a fight with a yoga mat."
Catching it against my chest with a grunt, I snap back, "I'd win."
"You'd win?"
"Oh yeah. I fight dirty."
He snorts. "You'd bite a yoga mat?"
"Hell yeah! If it started something, there’s no length I wouldn’t go to."
"I know I’m new to this, but I don't think that's how yoga is supposed to work."
"I don't know," I say, spreading the mat across the grass. "You've clearly never seen an aggressive downward dog."
He laughs loud enough to send a pair of birds scattering from a nearby pine.
Gods...I've missed hearing him really laugh.
It’s not the polite chuckle he’s given Sasha or even the instructors when they’ve come by and tried to ask a million questions without coming off as pushy.
Right now, it’s not the same strained smile he's forced every time I’ve woken him up with, yet another, late-night video call because I can’t fall asleep.
This one, the real one, reminds me everything hasn't fallen apart and that a piece of my home is always with me.
He plants himself beside me.
"Alright." His expression shifts, the joking fading just enough to let concern creep through. "How's the leg?"
Instinctively, I glance down. The scar where the blade entered has faded from angry crimson to pale pink, but the muscles around it still feel...wrong. Tight. Weak. Like someone replaced half my thigh with a soaked rope.
"It’s still attached."
“That didn’t answer my question.”
"And yet…it did."
He rolls his eyes. "On a scale from one to ten?"
"Three."
"Liar."
"Four."
"Try again."
"Fine." I sigh dramatically. "Five and a half."
“You’re full of shit, but I’m pretty sure that’s the best I’m going to get—and Korr can’t get on my ass for not asking,” Matt says, clapping his hands together once.
He shakes his head, still looking at me like he can’t quite believe I managed it.
“I’m honestly more shocked you convinced Korr to let you start training before you’ve even been cleared.
I didn’t think that man knew how to bend a rule, let alone make an exception for you. ”
“Who knows, but now that the interrogation is over, we’re stretching! And yes, we do need to stretch before yoga."
“I didn’t say anything!” He argues, before whispering a ‘yet’ he thinks I don’t hear.
We start with simple movements: neck rolls, shoulders, wrists.
Everything feels stiffer than I remember, like months rather than weeks have passed. Maybe they have, in a way.
My body remembers lying still far better than it remembers how to move.
Slowly I lower into a hamstring stretch, and immediately regret it, as my leg protests—the pain sharp, but not unbearable.
Matt notices before I say anything.
"Take it easy."
"I am."
"You've been trying to touch your toes for approximately ten seconds."
"I can almost—" My hamstring spasms. "...Ow."
"It never gets old.”
“What doesn’t?” I hiss, releasing from my self-induced torture.
"Always being right,” he teases, his smile on full blast as he kneels beside me. "Now, slowly ease into it."
"I am easing."
He shakes his head.
"I love this."
"What? You actually standing a chance at being better at yoga than me?"
"Well, that too," he says, his smile softening. "But mostly just you being able to stand on your own two feet.”
The joke dies on my tongue, and I quickly look away before he notices the sudden sting behind my eyes.
"I missed standing too."
A comfortable silence settles between us for a few moments—the kind only decades of friendship can create.
Eventually Matt clears his throat, “It was fun watching the constant showdown between your Alpha and ‘the Alpha of the house',” Matt mocks.
“There is no way Korr actually referred to himself like that! What a douche.”
“Okay, maybe he didn’t say those exact words…it was something closer to ‘This is my house, and I make the rules, so no food in the bedrooms’.”
My snort is so loud, it’s borderline offensive. “You do realize those are just facts, right? And to be fair, you said he gave in as soon as you asked nicely—which I’m still shocked you did, by the way.”
“What?” he asks, his hand shooting to his heart in faux-offense. “I’m always nice!”
“To me? Sure…but sweet-talking has never really been your style when you’re determined.”
“What can I say, Lee? He fell for my charm. Now, what do we need to do so I can get out of this heat and get some food in my stomach?”
We move through hip stretches, balance work, gentle lunges—which are significantly less fun. By the third lunge, my injured leg is trembling so hard I nearly lose my footing.
Matt's hand catches my elbow before I can tip sideways.
"I had it."
"You absolutely did,” he agrees, though his tone says the exact opposite.
Shoving his shoulder, I’m immediately frustrated by his lack of movement—truth be told, I think I may move more than he does.
Show-off.
"I hate how strong you've gotten."
"I've been training."
"Way to rub it in. I've been unconscious."
"Yeah, you seemed a little overly committed to the bit if you ask me."
I snort. "You’re the worst, you know that right?"
"Yup!"
We finish stretching after nearly thirty minutes, and I’m thoroughly disgusted by how much sweat has already soaked through my shirt and how embarrassingly heavier I’m breathing.
Before my coma, stretching would've been the warm-up before the warm-up—no joke, I used to volunteer to teach yoga classes to warm me up for my one-on-one training lessons, before group classes started.
Now it feels like half a workout.
Unsurprisingly, Matt notices me panting like a pug after playing fetch.
"We can stop after resistance bands."
"We're lifting."
"We're seeing."
"We're lifting."
He sighs dramatically, “You're impossible.”
“I need to be better—”
His eyebrows shoot up, catching the self deprecating thought that slipped out before I could stop it.
“Stronger,” I quickly correct. “I meant stronger.”
His side eye only lasts a second, then he takes pity on my absent-minded slip and walks toward a rack of equipment Korr’s commandeered from the arena.
The heavily worn dumbbells range in weights, while the clearly new resistance bands have varying levels of resistance. There are a pair of medicine balls strapped into a bungee-lined box that reminds me of the stuffed animal cages that were all the rage for crafty moms to make a few years back.
It’s nothing extravagant. Nothing that’ll be noticed as missing.
Matt returns carrying two ridiculously small dumbbells under his arms and two much larger ones in his hands.
I stare at the tiny ones I know he’s carrying for me.
“That’s insulting.”
"They're five pounds."
"And insulting."
"They're appropriate,” he says, handing them over despite my protest.
The first weighted sumo squat is easy…The third has me visibly shaking, and I’m seriously considering giving up.
“Wow. I think Sasha might be able to do more reps than you with those.”
“Shut up! I didn’t say I was done.”
“Sure looks like you’re getting ready to quit…”
“Nope! Just getting ready to challenge you to a reps competition,” I stupidly lie.
“I don’t think we’re playing on even ground—my weights are a little bit heavier than yours.”
“And whose fault is that? You chose this. Now deal with the consequences of your actions.”
Every following squat makes my injured leg quiver more violently. Every instinct screams to shift pressure off of it, but instead—I lower down into another.
The burn spreads through my thigh, my calf, my hip—hell, sparks of pain even shoot up into my back as every tiny stabilizing muscle that hasn't been used properly in weeks suddenly remembers it has a job.
"Good," Matt says quietly. "Push through."
"I am."
"Lower another inch."
"I hate you."
"I know, but you’ll thank me when you have full, easy mobility again."
Another inch and my leg screams.
Standing back up, the room begins to tilt—not from pain, but from nausea.
I freeze, and Matt's expression changes instantly.
"You okay?"
I swallow.
Sasha and her parents warned me about this. Heavy activity this soon after the miscarriage and while the medications are still working their way out of my system would upset my stomach. Something about my hormone levels still shifting, and energy or blood sugar levels being thrown into chaos.
"I'll be..." I take another breath. "...fine."
"Liar."
“I promise, Mattey."
He studies me another second. "Let’s go inside. You need water, and I need Hunter’s delicious meat in my mouth."
"He’s not here, but I’ll let him know.” I laugh, picking up my weights. “You go ahead; I need another set."
His head falls back toward the sky. "I'm calling Hunter."
"You wouldn't."
"I absolutely would because if you push too hard and get hurt, I’ll be the one getting another one of his stupid lectures. Now, get those dumbbells wiped down and get your ass in the house so I can finally eat!”
By the time we make it inside, every inch of me feels exhausted.
Not broken. Not destroyed. Just...used.
Like my muscles are finally beginning to remember what they were made for and how well we used to work together.
The cool air inside the house washes over my overheated skin before I even make it through the open door.
“You get the waters; I’ll start pulling everything out for lunch,” I say, shoving him toward the kitchen.
The refrigerator doors open with a familiar creak. Scanning the shelves, I begin pushing aside container after container—all filled with enough leftovers to feed a small army…or for Hunter, me, and usually Mattey to have just the right amount of options to pick from each day.
I’m not sure if he’s simply used to meal prepping, or if he can’t pick his meals until the last second either, but I’m not complaining that he ends up with as many overflowing containers after dinner as I do.
“Here they are!” I exclaim, pulling out the mouthwatering garlic, herb, and wine chicken Hunter grilled up last night and the seasoned roasted vegetable medley I’d made the day before.
Matt reaches into the cabinet for plates while I divide everything between them.
"You know..." He glances over. "...you're spoiled."
"Spoiled? I'm living with our Pain. In. The. Ass instructor."
"You are—but yet, you rarely complain about it."
"I—"
“Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be either if I were you. He’s made you your own study nook for all the books you keep demanding…insists on you getting enough uninterrupted sleep…and cooks like he was raised in a kitchen when you’ll let him.”
"Okay, fine. It’s not the worst.”
Matt chuckles as the microwave hums to life.
For a few seconds, everything feels peaceful. Safe. Normal.
Then—Creep by Radiohead suddenly erupts from Matt’s phone, forgotten on the charger, the familiar song slicing through the silence and putting us both instantly on edge.
The screen goes dark as the song halts abruptly just as Matt makes it to the kitchen counter. He’s barely lifting when the song begins playing again.
‘Captain Asshole’ flashes across the screen, and Matt answers with a grin.
"Well, if it isn't everyone's favorite overly—"
"Where are you?" The words explode through the speaker, sharp and demanding.
Matt's smile disappears.
"We just finished working out."
"Inside?"
"We are now. Why?"
"Lock every door."
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and Matt straightens.
"...Korr?"
"I said lock every fucking door. NOW!"
I don't think, my feet moving before I can tell them to.
By the time Matt says, "Lee—" I'm already across the kitchen toward the back entrance.
Deadbolt—clicked. Handle checked twice.
Windows—closed and latched.
Front door—secured by Mattey.
Behind me, Korr keeps talking, "There was another attack."
My hand freezes on the now partially closed curtain.
"...Another?" Matt asks.
"Animal."
"Where?" Matt asks quietly.
"About half a mile outside of the gates"
“Who?” I demand.
"He's Charlie Company, but I can't tell you who yet. He’s alive," Korr continues. "Barely."
I close my eyes. Not again.
"We're tracking it now."
"We?" Matt asks.
"Myself, Lorenson, three Vanguard who happened to be here meeting with Dean Stevens when another recruit reported seeing an abandoned car parked on the side of the road on their way back from lunch." His voice is calm now, and I realize it’s not from a lack of urgency, but to keep us from worrying.
"I don't know how long we'll be gone. The last hunt turned up nothing."
My stomach sinks.
The last one...They hadn't found tracks, blood, or even a den. Just...Nothing.
Almost as though the bear had simply...Vanished.
Matt glances toward me, and I know my face has gone pale—I can feel it.
Korr continues, "Classes are cancelled for the remainder of the day. No one is to leave their barracks, which means neither of you steps foot outside of the house. Understand?"
"Yeah."
"If anyone knocks..." His voice hardens. "...you do not answer the door unless you hear my voice."
Matt's eyebrows pull together.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
Silence.
Then—"Get a pen. I’m giving you the gun safe code.”
Matt's expression turns, and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him look so much like one of the King’s warriors as he does now, meticulously transcribing Hunter’s lock dial directions.
A beat passes.
“I’ll call when we’re back. Take care of each other.”
And the line goes dead.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
Ding.
The microwave’s cheerful little chime slices through the silence, absurdly bright against the tension strangling the room.
We both blink, the sound pulling us from our frozen state.
Without wasting another second, we split up—me rushing to get my gun from Lin. At the same time, Matt gathers enough weapons and ammunition to outfit a small armory, piling everything onto the kitchen island.
I begin pacing: three steps toward the living room. Turn. Three steps back toward the kitchen. My pulse pounds so hard it feels like it’s trying to outrun me, every nerve screaming that standing still is the worst thing I could possibly do.
Matt doesn’t say a word. He just watches me, equally trying to process everything Hunter said, his phone still tightly clutched in his hand.
Outside, deep in the trees behind Korr’s house, Tyr lets out a low, thunderous roar.
“Breathe, Little Faren. Nothing’s making it anywhere near you tonight.”