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And he wasn’t going to fucking cry, so he drove his elbow into the bag so hard it swung backwards.
A low whistle paused Fal’ran’s assault.
“I heard you were a wild one.” Lar’a sauntered into the room, sweating and twirling her training gatlung. “Seems I heard right.”
Fal’ran glanced at her, his chest heaving. “I’m not wild.”
She shrugged. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. Need someone to hold that bag for you?”
“No.”
Lar’a raised an eyebrow as she hung her training gatlung up on the wall. “Would you like someone to hold that bag for you?”
Fal’ran opened his mouth to say no. He was already raw and something about Lar’a’s demeanor and fanged grin told him she’d poke at him. But the immature impulse passed, and he nodded. Lar’a was one of Patrick’s closest friends. The offer was kind. The bag was easier to use if someone held it. And he was lonely. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Lar’a’s grin widened, and she braced her shoulder against the bag. “Fire away, kid.”
Kid. A nostalgia for something Fal’ran had never known twinged in his chest as he started in again. Lar’a was near the age his mother would have been if she’d lived. His mother, who had loved war and fighting and the army more than she’d loved him. Would she have been like Lar’a? Battle-scarred and muscular, aggressive, a fighting force capable of taking down young bucks half her age? Would Fal’ran have liked her if he’d known her?
Jury was still out on whether he liked Lar’a.
“Faster!” Lar’a barked when he slowed. “Keep your hands up. Your jaw’s wide open.”
Fal’ran grit his teeth and bobbed and weaved around invisible blows, his knuckles glued to his cheekbones. With Lar’a keeping the bag from sliding around too much, he added in a few knees and kicks. His breath rattled in his chest, and he worried he’d have to call a halt himself when Lar’a took pity on him.
“Time.”
He dropped his hands and stumbled backwards, gulping breaths of beautifully recycled air.
“You got good form, kid.” Lar’a braced her elbow on the bag and cocked her hip out.
Fal’ran preened under the praise, even though he hadn’t found the breath to speak yet.
“Good strength, too, and speed.” Lar’a’s voice took on a more calculating tone.
Fal’ran put his hands on his hips as his chest settled into a more regular breathing pattern. “Thanks.”
“Hell of a lot of fire, that’s for sure.” Lar’a crossed her arms. “And good instincts, from what I hear. And you’re young.”
“What’s your point?” Fal’ran had long stopped preening.
Lar’a shrugged as she casually gutted him. “I can see why Patrick’s thinking about throwing you back.”
Fal’ran’s overheated skin got clammy. “What?”
Lar’a watched his reaction with razor-sharp eyes. “Back out into the ranks, I mean. You’ve got all the right skills, and you’ll have made a name for yourself when this shit is all over.” Lar’a pushed herself off the bag. “You’ve got a bright future ahead of you.”
Fal’ran gasped for oxygen through his crushed chest, hyper aware of Lar’a’s piercing gaze on him. “Did he say that to you?”
“That you have a bright future ahead of you?” Lar’a wandered over to the squat rack and loaded up the barbell. “Like a thousand times.”
“That he’s gonna…” Fal’ran wrestled with the horrible taste of the words in his mouth. “Throw me back.”
“Just that he’s thinking about it.” Lar’a had to smell his distress. He was doing a shit job of hiding it. But she positioned herself under the barbell and lifted it off its hook as though he didn’t pump pure pain into the air.
Fal’ran didn’t know what to say, so he stood there like an idiot next to the squat rack as Lar’a pounded out reps. He wasn’t…surprised. Not really. He’d known Patrick was considering something along those lines, but to hear it out loud decimated him.
Lar’a re-racked her barbell with a heave. “Would that be so bad? You’re getting your shot. I’m told that’s what you always wanted.”
