Page 96 of Static

"No," I admitted. "I just don't think I'm ready for this." I hated the fact that I was too weak to face what happened to me. Too scared to do anything about it. But every time I even thought of facing it, my body pushed me into panic mode, and I hated that even more.

"Were you ready when Trent came after your kids?" he asked.

A blinding pain twisted in my chest, like a knife was plunged into it. All from a simple question. Ice ran through my veins and my whole body locked in place. "That... That's not…"

"Not nice?" he asked, shaking his head. "No, it's downright cruel. Almost as cruel as what he did to you. He didn't just attack you and your kids. He took your confidence, your power. I fucking hate having to do this, but better me than one of the others. Now raise your fists."

He wasn't barking at me. Or yelling. And I knew for a fact he cared about me and my children. So despite the anxiety trying to cripple me, I did as he said. "I don't know anything about fighting." It sounded weak even to me.

His expression softened. "I know. That's what we're doing here. No one expects you to go toe to toe with a grown man. To kick the shit out of him. But you can fight dirty." His normal, evil grin spread across his face. "I specialize in dirty. First things first, though. Let's teach you how to throw a punch."

He tilted his head as I stood there. "Get into a defensive position. Blade off a little."

I looked at him with wide eyes. "What does that even mean?"

He chuckled. "Sorry, I'm not used to working with newbs. You're right handed?" He nodded when I did. "Take your right shoulder and right foot, put them back a little. You're leading with the left. Good," he said when I took up the stance. "Keep your hands up high enough to protect your face. Bend your knees a little." I dipped into a slight crouch. "This is your defensive fighting stance. So, when I tell you to get into it, this is what I want you to do."

"Okay," I replied, watching him with wary eyes.

He held up a hand. "Hit it."

My brows shot up, but I was here, and I wanted to learn, even though it terrified me. My glove smacked into his fist.

"Not bad, Peaches. No wonder Trent had that fucking dent in his skull."

He was talking about where I hit him with my frying pan. My smile was grim, but the reminder that I'd tried to fight back, even when I didn't know what to do, settled some of my nerves. Butcher wouldn't hurt me. This was a safe place to learn. What did it hurt?

"This time," he said, bringing my focus back to him, "when you punch, you're going to twist your hips. Like this." He demonstrated and his fist whipped through the air as his hips turned.

I nodded and waited for him to get into position. I studied the man standing in front of me for a brief moment. To anyone who didn't know him, and even some who did, he probably looked mean. He had tattoos everywhere, crawling up his neck, on his skull, barely covered by his short dark hair. His eyes were intense as he waited for me to respond. There was a tattoo of a diamond beneath his left eye. He looked dangerous. He was dangerous. But not to me. He was my friend and he was here trying to help me. I swallowed back tears that thickened in my throat. So many people here wanted to help me. This was his way. And I was damn grateful for it.

"We're not waiting three to five business days to hit someone, Peaches," he told me with a wry grin.

I focused on his hand, let out a breath, and snapped my fist forward, twisting my hips as I did. My mouth dropped open as I punched his hand at least twice as hard as I had before.

"Good job," he told me with a grin. "That's how you throw a punch. The power comes from your legs and hips."

We spent the next few minutes perfecting my punching technique. I was surprised how hard I could hit after such a short time, but still, I was uncomfortable with it.

"You're holding back still," Butcher told me. His eyes narrowed as he spoke.

I let my arms flop down to my side with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I just…ooof!"

He moved so fast I didn't know how to respond. He leapt forward, pinning me against the wall.

My jaw dropped and every molecule in my being froze. Terror had me in a tight choke hold.

"Did you hold back when he came into your house? Did you hold back when he threatened your kids? Are you going to hold back the next time someone threatens your son? Your daughter?"

That ice in the veins sensation vaporized under something new. The terror was obliterated. My arms, legs, my whole body tensed. Fear was replaced by rage. I wasn't thinking anymore. Wasn't scared. I acted purely on instinct. My foot lashed out with all the strength I had.

Butcher was ready for it. His hand dropped down and caught my ankle before it hit him in the groin. It still had enough force to knock him back a step.

And I wasn't done. When my foot hit the ground, I twisted my hips and drove a punch in straight to his face. He hadn't been ready for that. There was enough force to spin him back. Later, I realized if I hadn't been wearing the gloves, I probably would have broken my hand. But in that moment, the memories of Trent attacking me were in my mind, driving my actions. I stood there, glaring at him, panting.

Butcher recovered from the hit and squared off with me, grinning from ear to ear. "That's it!" he shouted. "Bring it on! Don't flail like a helpless girl, use your hips! Put some power into those hits. Come at me, Gwen. Pretend I'm that useless fucking dickhead and attack!"

I stepped forward and threw another punch. He twisted, taking the hit in the shoulder. I had another coming. And another. I kept swinging. He kept taking the hits. He was allowing himself to be hit versus deflecting the hits. He was letting me land some blows to build up my confidence. Butcher seemed to know exactly what I needed. I was angry, furious. Not at what he was saying, or doing. But at what had happened. By the memories. The fear I had that night melted away.

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