Page 66 of Rising from the Ashes

I line up behind her, grabbing onto her hips. “The power comes from here,” I whisper in her ear as I position her into a fighting stance. “Keep your wrists straight. Now try.”

I can almost feel the power reverberate through her as she lurches forward.

“Ugh!” She shouts as she punches the dummy one more time. She leans forward, her chest heaving as she breathes heavily. Her blonde ponytail falls forward as drops of sweat fall from her face onto the floor.

As she catches her breath I walk over to my desk and pull the boxing gloves out of the drawer. Walking back over to her, she stands up and looks at the gloves in my hands.

“What are you doing?”

“Hold your hands up.” I say. She reluctantly listens to me and I slide a glove over each of her hands, taking note of how red her knuckles are.

I strap on the curved pads to my hands for her to hit.

“Here. If you want to hit something out of anger - then hit me. Take it all out on me. Whatever it is that has you so wound up, get it all out.”

As if a totally different person takes over, Quinn begins to rapidly hit my padded hands in succession, grunting louder with each hit. Then as though a switch flips, I begin to hear choked sobs breaking through the sounds of her punches.

“How could he do this? How could the man who raised me as my father, admit to killing my true parents? I don’t even know who I am.” She pauses for a moment, huffing out for a full breath before landing one more hard hit. “How could he kill my fiancé?!”

She falls to her knees on the boxing mat with a loud thud. Her shoulders slump forward as she chokes on her broken sobs. “And what’s worse, you are the first person that’s made me feel anything since I lost Mitchell. And I am just a toy to you.”

Ripping my hand pads off, I kneel down next to her. Untying her gloves, I try to reassure her. “I hate that I ever made you feel that way. You were just supposed to be a job, another contract, but you ended up being so much more to me than just a physical connection.”

“What about Shado?”

“I love Shado. He has saved me, multiple times.” I pause. “But I feel connected to you too. We’ve both been wronged by people we loved and thought we could trust.”

She sits silently, looking down at the ground.

“Quinn, I do care about you, but I am so fucked up. I’ve killed so many people and burnt so many bridges. I don’t know if there is any way I could go back to leading a normal life once this is all over.” Holding her hands in mine, I give them a soft squeeze as I continue, “You can though, and that’s what I want most for you.”

She looks up at me with tears in her eyes and mutters, “Why do you get to choose what I want to do?”

For once, I am speechless. Since we took her that night, I never once considered what she wanted.

Breaking the silence, my burner phone begins vibrating against my computer desk.

Sighing, I rise to my feet and walk over to grab it, noticing that I have three missed calls from Drake.

A message pops across the screen that lurches my stomach into my throat.

Dropping my phone to the ground, I fall into the computer desk chair.

Quinn’s head snaps toward me. “Calista, what is it?”

“It’s Shado.”

***

I don’t remember the drive over to Drake’s estate or even walking through his large marbled foyer into the living room. Somehow Quinn got us here.

I hear Drake speaking but I can’t bring myself to focus. I keep replaying the message in my head.

Drake: He’s gone, Calista.

My vision begins to adjust and I find myself staring at Shado’s bloodied burner phone, Society issued phone, and his Glock in a plastic baggie sitting on Drake’s coffee table.

“W-What happened?” I stammer, wringing my hands together, trying to ground myself to reality. Clamminess washes over my skin the longer I stare at the blood in the bag.

---