In a city of sheep ruled by wolves, she became the python that pulled them apart.
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Sage Black is a girl of little opportunities, forced to see the seamy side of life growing up in New York. Witnessing what lengths billionaires will go through t...
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I don't get much sleep that night, tossing and turning until the sun comes out, peaking through the plastic blinds that cover my windows. After several missed calls, the unknown number stops ringing altogether and is blocked. The words haunt me through the day, making me second-guess every person that spends a second too long staring at me.
The hours of the day blur into each other until it's ten at night, and I find myself standing in front of the school's magnificent arching steel gates. They stare back at me from a great height, questioning my presence.
It's eerily quiet save for crickets chirping and the occasional dog barking. The gothic exterior of the school makes it look like an abandoned castle at night, clouds looming overhead, wind teasing the trees. Shoving my clammy hands into my pockets, I put one foot in front of the other, knowing exactly why I came here. Through the second gates, the glass doors, the dark hallways, until I'm pushing open the heavy doors of the wrestling gym.
Familiar adrenaline makes my heart lighter at the sight of the punching bags, boxing gloves, and hand bandages. They look sturdier than the worn-out ones I'm accustomed to back at the warehouse.
Suddenly, I'm sucked back to a moment when I was on the floor with Lucien in his gym. I caught my distorted reflection on a dirty, metal cupboard across me. Sweat matted my hair to my forehead, and my face was a furious shade of red as I hunched over to catch my breath. My muscles ached for the delicious release of breathing in air. But I didn't get the chance.
Muscled arms hooked under my own armpits, pulling to me to my feet in a beat. His calloused palms forced my face inches away from his until I was pierced with his harsh, unflinching gaze. They weren't the soft, seafoam eyes that joked with me last night. No. These are glinting jade orbs, sharp enough to cut me.
"We're not done yet, Sage. Again and again. Until you can't twitch a finger."
His cool breath washed over my face. There was a hot burn behind my eyelids at his rough voice, and I closed my eyes to stop the tears from leaking. I felt weak, defeated, and like a little girl. Like my father had just chastised me for simply being a child.
But the image of his derisive face behind my eyelids induced a new rage, hot and seeping into my muscles, fueling them with ire and newfound energy. Ignoring my aching limbs, I put my gloves back on.
Again and again.
Now, I imagine all my troubles and angst pile behind every kick, the slapping of flesh on rubber echoing against the walls of the Wetherton gym, as though a direct channel is giving my heavy heart an outlet through pointed feet and clenched fists.
Roundhouse kick.
Front kick.
Front kick.
Straight punch.
Jab.
Repeat.
I let the pattern control every contraction of muscle until I don't thinking, just move. My hits adapt to perfect positioning, and I relish the familiar burn. His face plays in my mind like a flickering movie screen.
