I’m not a violent person, but hitting something sounds really good.
I draw back a hand and swing, throwing my whole body into it.
Ow. Ow. The bag swings slightly, but shock reverberates down my arm. I think I’ve dislocated every joint of every finger, but I can feel it, and it’s the first thing I’ve truly felt in weeks. It feels fantastic. I need one of these in my basement.
I grit my teeth and pull back my arm to do it again.
“Whoa.” A hand catches my arm in midswing.
I’m standing there, gasping, and Declan has a hold of my elbow. His eyebrows are way up.
“So . . . yeah,” he says. “I don’t want to be sexist here, but after the way you talk about cars, I didn’t expect you to throw a punch like that.”
I draw back and straighten, feeling foolish. “Sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I just don’t want to watch you break a wrist.”
“Here.” Rev half stands, holding out a pair of black padded gloves. He’s pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt, and I wonder if he’s grown more comfortable around me—or if he’s just warm. “If you really want to beat on it, put on gloves.”
The baby monitor squawks, and he straightens. “She’s up. I’ll be back in a few.”
Once he’s gone, the basement falls completely silent, and Declan and I are alone. I’m left holding a pair of gloves, feeling a little silly, a little embarrassed, and a little badass.
“You going to put them on or what?” His voice is as edged and challenging as ever.
It takes me a second to figure out the Velcro straps at the wrist, but I quickly slide them over my fingers. They’re like a cross between boxing gloves and fingerless mittens, with thick padding around the hand.
If I think about this too hard, I’m going to bolt out the front door, so I close my eyes and swing.
I feel the shock again, but I’m glad for the gloves. My finger bones don’t feel like they’re splintering inside my skin, and the straps keep my wrists stable. I strike harder. Again. And again. The shock travels through my body, a warmth that settles in my belly. I lose count.
“Open your eyes.”
I open them, and he’s right there, holding the bag from behind so it doesn’t swing. I wonder how long he’s been there.
“Get closer,” he says.
I shift closer, staring up into his blue eyes.
“Closer,” he says again.
I move close enough to hug the bag. I’m breathless, but I don’t think it’s entirely from the exertion. “Close enough?” I say softly.
His eyes study mine. “You don’t want to reach for it.”
I want to be coy, but my voice comes out serious. “Am I stronger than you thought I was?”
“You’re exactly as strong as I thought you were.”
The words carry more weight than they should, and I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe every moment is meaningful, but this one feels more so.
I bounce on the balls of my feet and tap the bag, like I’m Muhammad Ali or something. I probably look ridiculous.
He inclines his head. “Go ahead. Hit it.”
I throw another punch, but now my eyes are locked on his. I don’t hit anywhere near as hard. I feel so torn, like being attracted to him is some kind of betrayal to The Dark. And yet . . . I can’t help myself. Declan is prickly and explosive and sharp, but buried deep below all that is a boy who’s caring and protective and loyal.
I want to see more of that side of him.
His cell phone rings, and he jerks it out of his pocket. After a glance at the screen, his expression darkens, and he shoves it back in his pocket.
“My stepfather,” he says when he sees my questioning glance.
“You don’t have to answer it?”
“I’ll tell him I had my ringer off.”
His phone rings again almost immediately. He doesn’t even bother to take it out of his pocket this time.
“He’ll give up eventually,” he says.
I remember meeting his stepfather in the street, the way the man provoked Declan—though Declan sure provoked him right back. “You don’t get along.”
He snorts. “Have you ever heard of male animals in the wild killing the existing offspring of a new mate? Alan would probably be okay with that.”
His phone rings again, sounding insistent.
“He must really want to talk to you,” I say.
Declan actually does turn the ringer off now.
We stand there in silence for a moment, breathing at each other.
“Were you looking for me?” he says. “When you came out of school?”
His quiet voice is rich and full and gentle, revealing nothing of his temper. Something about it is so reassuring—maybe because I’ve seen the fierceness on the other side of it. I want to put my forehead against the bag and close my eyes and beg him to talk to me for five minutes.
I look at the bag and throw a solid punch, just to give myself a moment to figure out how to answer. “You remember that picture I took of you and Rev?”
“The one I ‘should have asked’ you to delete?”
I stop and look at him. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No.” His expression is penitent. “You were right. I should have asked first.”
Oh. I remind myself to breathe. Another punch. “Rev said I didn’t have to delete it.”
“Oh, he did?”
I hesitate and look at him over the gloves. Some of my hair has come loose, and it hangs in my eyes. “Yeah. He did.”
“So what did you do with it?”
I have to hit the bag again. “Mr. Gerardi wants to use it for the cover of the yearbook.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious.” I hesitate. “He seems really excited about it. I told him I wanted to ask you if it would be okay.”