Page 11 of Malice

For three weeks, I sat there while a therapist tried to twist my anger into unprocessed grief. She didn’t get that the anger was the glue holding me together, the one thing I could control from that nightmare.

Feelings got me nowhere. I’m done with them.

The gym door jingles as I step in, the familiar mix of grunts and clanging metal enveloping me. The smell hits me, leather, sweat, disinfectant, and something tight inside eases just a bit. Kane’s gym has always been Carter’s second home, a family legacy of training fighters for generations. I’ve been here countless times, dropping off Matthew’s gear or picking up food for gatherings.

But never with a purpose.

The space spreads out before me, vast and industrial. Mirrors line one wall, capturing the fierce dance of men and women pushing their limits. Heavy bags sway from chains thick enough to anchor ships. The ring commands attention, its ropes gleaming under harsh lights. And there, by the water fountain, clipboard in hand, is Carter.

He hasn’t seen me yet. I take a moment to watch him in his element, this man who’s orbited my life for years. His dark hair is damp with sweat, curling at his neck. A simple gray t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, muscles flexing as he scribbles notes. Even from here, I can sense his command of the space.

My fingers tighten around my bag strap as I head toward him, each step deliberate despite the tightness in my chest. Three weeks of distance, of texts and calls that never filled the void his embrace left that morning.

My fingers tighten around my bag strap as I head toward him, each step deliberate despite the tightness in my chest. Three weeks of distance. Texts and calls that never filled the space his embrace left behind that morning.

I stop a few feet away, suddenly aware of the fading bruise on my shoulder, visible under my tank top. Of my shorts showing the mottled evidence on my thighs. Of the eyes following me across the gym floor.

“I need you to teach me,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He sets the clipboard down, full focus on me. “Teach you what?”

“Self-defense.” The words come out strong. “Real self-defense. Not the kind from a weekend workshop. The kind that might have made a difference.”

His expression changes to one of surprise and to something darker, a protective fury that’s been in his eyes since that night at the barn. “Trixie⁠—”

“I’ve done the counseling,” I cut in, before he can object. “It made me angry. Not sad or scared, just angry. I wanted to scream during those sessions.”

He steps toward me, then pauses, respecting the space I need. “Anger is normal⁠—”

“I’m tired of being a victim, Carter. I want to be a threat.” The words surprise us both. I stand straighter, meeting his eyes with a steadiness I didn’t know I had. “I want anyone who tries to hurt me again to fear me.”

The gym hums around us with the thud of gloves, clang of weights, murmurs of trainers. But between us, everything is still.

“You don’t need to do this,” he says quietly, his voice low and strained. “You’ve got people to protect you. Matthew, me, the club⁠—”

“That’s why I need to do it.” I close the gap between us, close enough to see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. “I can’t live waiting for someone else to save me. I need to know I can save myself.”

A muscle twitches in his cheek, a familiar sign he’s wrestling with a thought. I see the conflict, the protector against the man who respects my choices.

“It won’t be easy,” he warns, his voice low. “I won’t hold back.”

“Good.” The word is sharp, decisive. “Easy didn’t save me in that barn.”

Carter studies me, his dark eyes searching mine. Whatever he sees seems to satisfy him. He nods once, a swift motion like sealing a deal.

“Okay,” he says simply. “When do you want to start?”

The simple question makes me blink. I expected arguments, conditions, delays. Instead, there’s only action.

“Now.” The word slips out before I can reconsider.

A glimmer of approval flashes across his face. “Now it is.” He checks his watch, then looks back at me. “Give me twenty minutes to finish with this group. Then you’re all mine.”

The phrase sends an unexpected thrill through me, not fear, but something else entirely. Something that quickens my pulse.

I nod, suddenly conscious of how small I must look in my gym clothes, bruises still visible. “I’ll be here.”

As he returns to his group, I sit on the benches along the wall, dropping my bag beside me. A tremor runs through my hands, but it’s not fear. It’s anticipation, that electric charge of stepping into the unknown.