Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
How could someone even do it? I wouldn't be the first person to have to go back to my old life as a new person, who would need to reintroduce myself to people who had once known me so well, have to watch the confusion—and, let's face it, disappointment—at this new version of me, so wholly different from the image of me they had in their minds.
A sharp whack to the backs of my legs jarred me back to the present just in time to brace my fall, prevent me from whacking my face against the merciless concrete. There was a laughably thin mat covering it, deep charcoal stained deeper in spots by old blood. Mostly my own. Though I did occasionally manage to get a lucky shot or two in.
Sucking in a breath, I threw my weight, rolling onto my back, and staring up at my attacker.
"You're not focusing. Stop daydreaming about makeup and party dresses, and fucking fight back."
His voice was one that boomed even if he didn't necessarily raise it, the kind that managed to bounce off the walls and reverberate into your chest, vibrating through your ribcage. Even after all these years, it didn't lose the edge it always had for me. I still often had to fight the urge to do his bidding the instant he spoke to me simply because everything about his voice demanded compliance. Immediate compliance.
A snort bubbled up and burst out—a low, sarcastic sound.
Makeup and party dresses.
I hadn't even seen a tube of lipstick in the better part of a decade. The thought of a party dress made my lip curl.
"I think you know more about makeup than I do at this point," I told him, curling upward, hugging my knees to my chest for a moment, finger poking through a hole in the knee of my black yoga pants, running a fingertip over a crisscross of scars found on the skin peeking through. I didn't even remember what caused them. Or when I had gotten them. Though, judging by the amount of color fade, they were old ones. Hell, they may have even been from my old life, from my reckless days of climbing and falling out of trees, giving my mother a mild heart attack.
"We've only been at this an hour, kid. You have only landed two punches," he reminded me, turning on his heel, stalking over to the side of the room, grabbing a bottle of water, leaving his broad back to me.
Once upon a time, that would be all that I would see. A man's back. A tall, wide, strong man's back.
Now, though, I saw the half a dozen ways I could attack from behind. I saw the slight lean to the right that said he favored his left knee when it was cold and wet. Which meant most of the time. I saw the rise and fall of his breath, annoyingly not winded while my chest rose and fell much more dramatically, despite being slimmer.
Though that was likely because this beast of a man took a two and a half hour run every single morning while I grumbled at my pillow, asking it to be softer and more supportive, and all the while it rolled its eyes at my neediness.
What can I say, cardio had never been my favorite thing. Even if I understood how important stamina was in a fight. I cursed through the run he dragged me on with him twice a week. At half his speed. For half the time.
"You're leaving," he said, turning back, dark eyes pinning me, daring me to try to lie to him. I'd never even tried. But everything about him said that you shouldn't even think about doing so.
"What?" I asked, head jerking back, brows drawing together.
"You're leaving."
He was not a man of many words. To him, the fewer the better. Luckily, I was raised around someone else much like him. I was used to short, clipped sentences and long looks that often said more than words could.
"I never said I was leaving."
"You're growing your hair out," he observed, jerking his chin toward my head.
My hand rose instinctively, feeling the still somewhat foreign feel of short-cropped hair up the sides of my head to where it grew longer on top.
When I had shown up here, it had been with a newly buzzed head. Gone were the long, shiny, midnight locks I had all my life. I wanted to look like a woman on a mission. Because that was exactly what I was. Over the years, it made the most sense to simply keep buzzing it. Long hair got in the way. It was a hindrance in a fight. It could be used against you.
I wasn't even sure how long ago it was that I stopped buzzing the whole head, leaving it long on top, raising the blade a bit down the sides and back.