TRAINING
Sara
Up. Let’s go.” Chris firm voice wakes me early again.
Still, determination doesn’t make movement easier. Getting up isn’t really the right word. I fold forward in slow motion and end up hunched on the edge of the mattress while he’s standing there, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.
“You’re sore,” he states.
I don’t bother answering. He can see it all over me and watches for a second longer, then disappears downstairs.
I make it to the bathroom, wincing with every step.
As I wash my face, an uneasy thought nags at me.
How did I get into bed? I remember the couch.
The fire. Warmth covering my legs and shoulders.
I remember fighting the heaviness dragging my eyelids down, trying to watch TV. I don’t remember the stairs or the bed.
Weird. I shake it off, but the thought lingers, an itch I can’t quite scratch.
It’s colder today. Outside greets me with a refreshing chill. He starts us with stretches.
Chris patiently talks me through them. He moves with the confidence of someone who knows what he’s doing. Somehow, that helps. I stop pushing so hard. Start breathing easier.
We go for another run, or rather a limp. A snail-paced jog around the lake path we already know. It’s even more grueling today, but also more familiar. I keep my head down, eyes on the trail, trying to put one foot in front of the other. Chris runs beside me, letting me pick my pace.
“Keep going,” he says when I start to lag behind. “That’s what matters. Doesn’t have to be fast. Just don’t quit.”
It sounds more like life advice than training instructions.
I make it to breakfast, barely, but I push through. We eat earlier than yesterday. Chris must sense I need it. We don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Before we continue working out, he fixes me a drink with a weird pink tint.
“Electrolytes,” he says. “You’ll need ’em.”
I gulp it down without thinking.
◆◆◆
At the end of the day, I’m nothing but bruises. Every tiny motion is torture.
Chris doesn’t say anything, but I catch the way his eyes linger on how I move, the way I lower myself into the chair at the kitchen table as if I might splinter.
“You’re wrecked,” he says finally, a note between sympathy and amusement in his voice.
“I’m all right,” I lie, overthinking my internal pep talk about pain not defining me. Right now, it may have taken over my whole personality.
He arches a brow. “Come on.”
I sigh and sink deeper into the chair. “Okay, I’m dying.”
He smirks, clearly pleased with my honesty, and reaches for a glass. “More electrolytes first, then food. After that, I’m drawing you a hot bath.”
I blink, momentarily speechless. Of all the things I was prepared for him to say, that was not on my bingo card for tonight.
He glances at me sideways as he stirs the powder into the water. “Yeah. Trust me, it’ll help. You’ll thank me when you wake up tomorrow and don’t feel like roadkill.”
My mind trips over the idea of Chris drawing me a bath. “I mean, you’re not—”
“I’m not joining,” he says, holding my gaze. “Unless you need backup.”
I choke on a laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, no. I’m good.”
A hint of humor plays at his lips. Is he flirting with me? Would I want him to? Jeez, stop being ridiculous, Sara.
The bath turns out to be exactly what I needed. He even threw in a handful of Epsom salts, and the water is the perfect kind of hot. I sink into it with a groan, arms folded over the edge of the tub, forehead resting on them.
But I can’t relax all the way. Not with my head spinning from training and from the way his hands had guided mine, stabilizing me, his breath low at my ear. I hate how warm that thought makes me, or maybe it’s just the water.
The last two days were an unexpected high. I’m more connected to myself than ever before. Pushing my body’s limits puts me in control.
Oh my God, I enjoy training with a killer. And not just any killer. The man who stole me, locked me in his shed, and changed my life in one sudden turn off the road. What does that make me? Deep down, I’m not sure I’m doing this for the right reasons. The line’s starting to blur.
When I finally emerge, pink-skinned and drowsy, he’s already got dinner going. He stirs the pan with the same focus he uses in training, precise without being fussy.
I help him before he can ask and set the table.
Few words pass, yet the quiet is comfortable.
I keep sneaking glances at him when he isn’t paying attention to me.
Trying to reconcile the man who carries guns and ends people with the one cooking right in front of me.
The two versions don’t fit. For all I know, I should be more afraid of having a weakness for the second.
As we sit down to eat, I find myself poking around the plate just to stay busy.
“Are you gonna make a fire again tonight?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual. It’s not that I’ve been thinking about it ever since I was in the tub.
He glances up at me with a hint of a smile. “You want me to?”
I inspect my nails to avoid his eyes. “Only if you were going to anyway.”
“Sure.”
After we clean up the dishes, he kneels in front of the fireplace and stacks the logs while I sink into the couch, closer to his spot this time.
“You gonna make it through a movie tonight,” he asks, “or are you gonna pass out on me again?”
I make a face. “Okay, yeah, about that. I don’t remember going to bed last night.”
He chuckles, low. “Because you didn’t. I carried you.”
My mouth falls open. “You what?”
He shrugs. “You were out cold. I couldn’t wake you, and the couch would’ve just made your aches worse.”
I press my lips together, mortified. “Sorry. That must’ve been... I don’t know. Weird.”
“Wasn’t weird.”
Of course he’d say that, while I’m not able to even look at him directly, thankful when he presses play.