Page 21 of ’Til You Break

As I make the walk of shame back to Lindsey, who’s still talking to the guy who picked her up at the bar, I know this can’t happen again. No matter how incredible it feels in the moment, it won’t do either of us any good.

God knows it won’t be easy.

But I’ll have to stay strong.

Chapter Eight

Vik

Two Days Later

“The fuck’s the matter with you?” my coach, Duke, shouts from the sidelines. “Keep your hands up, motherfucker. This kid’s gonna rock your shit.”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of the statement.

But Duke isn’t wrong.

My head’s not in the fight, and I’m getting the piss beaten out of me. The worst part is that, even though we’re training for MMA, neither of us has attempted a grapple yet. I’m nothing more than a walking punching bag and my opponent is a wannabe boxer throwing vicious hooks.

I can’t blame myself for this. I haven’t had a clear thought since I felt Hannah’s wetness. Smelled it on my fingers after I walked out of the bathroom. I’d have tasted her too if I didn’t know I’d be drinking straight from the source soon enough.

Denying my baser urges is torture, but it’ll make finally getting what I want all the more satisfying.

Thump.

A right jab cracks against my jaw.

Bang.

Another catches me above the brow, followed by a sharp left hook that leaves the taste of blood in my mouth.

Duke bellows obscenities from the sidelines about my pathetic performance. Poor guy’s just doing his job, and I’m making it impossible for him. He’s not furious because I’m out of practice. He’s furious because I haven’t knocked this young punk’s teeth down his throat. He knows I could do it easily, so he also knows my head isn’t in the zone.

I started training in mixed martial arts as a teenager and haven’t stopped. I’ve reached a level where I could easily do Duke’s job with my eyes closed. But I don’t train others because I love to practice the sport myself. I train to become a master of close-quarters combat. Someone who is capable of far more than merely winning sparring matches in Duke’s dusty old gym.

Peak physical conditioning is only one weapon in my arsenal. My marksmanship is another. I’ll need both if I ever hope to find the men who murdered my mother. I have to be ready to kill from any distance.

Another punch comes at me, but this time I duck beneath it. I still don’t raise my hands, though. I don’t need to. My opponent hits hard, but not hard enough.

As I circle the octagon, one thought keeps forcing its way to the front of my mind. If Hannah can distract me this much when nothing’s at stake, then what could happen when I’m standing in front of someone who’s genuinely trying to kill me?

I shouldn’t have followed her into the bathroom.

And I definitely shouldn’t have touched her.

But I wanted to.

We both know her protests are bullshit.

Stepbrother.

Stepsister.

Those words are just labels for a relationship that our parents forced on us. They don’t have to stop us from taking what we both want.

And it’s not as though we’re likely to get caught.

I understand her hesitation, of course. We grew up under the same roof, and our parents are happily married. But I barely speak to my father anymore.