Page 58 of Manacled Hearts

My lips part as that question takes me aback.

Both… right?

“Or is it you who actually makes you angry? Do you belong on the same color spectrum, Evelyn?”

My gaze whips to hers, eyes wide as the words crash into my bones. It doesn’t take me more than a couple of seconds to realize that the question was rhetorical in her eyes. She only asked it so I can answer it for myself. So I can admit it to myself.

“They make me angry. The ones who hurt me, who took me away from my home, and the one who promised to save me before it was too late, yet failed.” This is the only thing I’m admitting today.

I don’t share a color palette with them.

I definitely do not, no matter my vicious crimson dreams, once the nightmares end.

* * *

I left Dr. Moss’s office with a new need inside of me. One that took me straight to Maddox and The Fightclub. He brought me here a few weeks ago, after I had a particularly bad reaction to a man walking behind us on the street. It wasn’t exactly a panic attack, but I freaked out.

It reinforced how powerless I truly feel. The vulnerability was slowly killing me, and Madds acknowledged that I needed to gain control. Not back, but more than I had before. Because mine and my sister’s kidnapping happened while I was technically in control.

I wasn’t.

I glance down at my strapped hands for a moment, rejoicing in the ache in my knuckles. After that therapy session, I needed a different type of treatment for that frustration.

“Duck,” Maddox orders, and I follow, narrowly avoiding his heavy fist. “Sidestep left. Good. Now right, duck, and jab to the sternum.”

He grunts slightly, as I follow each of his commands and strike him as ordered. Only, he doesn’t stop there. He ducks quicker than a man his size should, and swipes at my feet. He manages to catch one, but I jump before he can catch the other.

“Good. And after a move like this, your opponent might have their guard down while they get their balance back or rise to their feet. So, you strike the vulnerable spot closest to you. Throat, nose, in the hollow spot under the sternum, or anything else close to you,” he instructs.

He’s already up but, for some reason, I decide to strike anyway. I lunge, but my back hits the springy floor before my fist hits him.

“Wrong timing, Evie,” he scolds and reaches over to help me up.

“I know, I just…” I trail off, thankful that the Fightclub is almost empty tonight, save for three guys sparing in the ring.

“Burning anger?” Madds asks.

I pause for a moment on my way up, wondering just how transparent I am. Because neither the therapist, nor him, have had any trouble reading me today.

He doesn’t press when I don’t answer right away, instead turns to put away the equipment we used in my training. I’m not sure what he thinks of my progress, but I believe it’s been going quite well. I feel it in my muscles, my reflexes, and in my confidence too. I’m weary about it too, because confidence can be deceiving, and I don’t want to get too cocky. That will definitely get me hurt. I can’t deny the increased strength though. And not only the physical one.

“There’s nothing wrong about it,” Madds says from somewhere behind me, and I stop mid unwrapping my hands.

“About what?”

“Burning anger, frustration, or… other emotions.” His last two words are loaded, but I don’t dare pry.

Maddox is an interesting character. Usually quiet. The type of person who can happily sit in a comfortable silence and doesn’t feel the need to talk just for the sake of it. He’s been better since we got closer, not that we’ve had any deep conversations, but I swear sometimes I see these sparks. Like he wants to ask a slightly more personal question or give an insight that allows a tinge of vulnerability, but then he stops himself, using words like other emotions.

Sometimes I even think that it’s the right time to push, ask about the scars I’ve seen etched into his skin when he was training shirtless. So many of them. Long, short, thin, thick, round… most of them over his torso. Apart from the one sweeping from the middle of his forehead down to his cheek, luckily missing his amber eye.

I never ask though. Just as he doesn’t ask me. If I’m not ready, I can’t expect him to be. His mostly silent support is enough, and he’s given so much of it. Even Maya is slowly starting to see him as a big brother. It scares me, this platonic emotional attachment to him, to Lulu, Morri, June… it’s growing roots that will bleed when finally cut. And they’ll have to be cut, because my sister and I will have to go back to Fleeton.

I realize I haven’t moved, midway through unwrapping my hand, the answer to his statement resting at the border of my mind.

“Is that why you fight?” all those thoughts about never prying, and here I am… crossing that invisible threshold.

He doesn’t answer for a long while, and I wonder if he’s still there.

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