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forty
For the first twenty minutes, she just… pummels me. Punch after punch. When they start getting harder and faster instead of slowing, I know she’s working something off.
I’ve never related to anything more than the harsh lines of her face as she loses track of where she is and just lets me have it. Grunting and snarling while she hits me again. And again.
That sexy-as-fuck body is quick and graceful. Half an hour after I teach her the proper stances, she’s already moving on to footwork. Once I show her how to balance and where to step, she’s turning circles around the ring within the hour.
That shit took me weeks when I first started.
I’ve never been prouder.
She must know it because I can’t keep my fat, stupid mouth shut.
“There she is.”
“Such a fucking badass.”
“That’s my girl.”
When she finally starts to wind down, I see the sadness creep into her stance. Defeat. Because even though she just crushed that workout, it didn’t get rid of her pain.
Fuck, I get that. It’s my big secret—the fact that I never feel weaker or less sure of myself than I do after I win. Because winning meant I threw everything I had at my demons.
But they’re always waiting for me when I climb out of the cage.
Once she loses steam, I talk to keep her from getting in her own head. It seems to work—the more I go on about how I started fighting, my weight class, and my most hated opponents, the easier she flows through the drills.
My kitten lands a hit to my shoulder, and I try not to smile like an idiot. Narrowing her eyes, she goes in for another one, harder. I block it, turning us in a pivot that has her grunting in frustration.
“How did you start doing this anyway?” she grumbles, dodging a super-slow-mo version of my right hook. “You just decided one day to kick the crap out of people?”
I grin. This is my favorite side of her—the no-bullshit, sassy, smart woman she keeps buried under all her fear and low self-esteem. Whenever I manage to tease my kitten’s claws out, she never fails to make me fall harder for her.
“No,” I reply, leaning out of a jab to the left. “They made us fight in school.”
Fuck.
Too late, I realize I’ve said too much. Serena drops back, her gloved hands falling to her sides like stones. “You had to fight in school? What the hell kind of school did you go to?”
I hate talking about this shit. But after everything she told us last night… I owe her this much, right?
“Reform school,” I grit. “Put your fists back up.”
She follows my order, but her eyes stay wary as I circle her. “Why did you have to go to reform school?”
My shoulder rises in a shrug. “My parents are betas. When my Alpha started to come through, they were pissed. Hated that I couldn’t control myself. The aggression, the possessiveness, the sex. All of it disgusted them, so they found a military school that was supposed to wrestle kids’ Alphas into submission.”
Even now, I almost snort at the irony. They sent me away to get me under control… and wound up turning me from a beast into a monster.
They never expected that my Alpha would like the pain. Crave it. And they didn’t know me well enough to know that spite was basically my entire personality at that point.
They didn’t want an aggressive alpha for a son, so I decided I would become the most aggressive alpha there was. A pain professional. A fighter.
They decided I wouldn’t be their son anymore.
Fair enough, right?
Serena is quiet while I tell her my story, letting me lead her through drills and bullshit punches. If she’s trying to keep me talking, it works. Which is when I realize—that’s exactly what she’s been doing this whole damn time.
