Page 173 of Captive Omega

Resa knows we tried to make the courtroom as safe for her as we could. She saw the maps, the photographs, and heard Garrison chew the prosecutor out for a leak that had to have come from him.

There had been something off about one of the courthouse cops. I hadn’t realized what it was until he looked right at us for one split second. I closed up the two-inch gap between me and Resa, because that must have been what he was waiting for. His one chance to shoot.

It was only when we were pulling away from the courthouse that I realized what it was about him that had seemed wrong: his shoes. Black laced up combat boots when the other cop was in shiny office style shoes.

Garrison said the shooter got away, and there’s an investigation to get to the bottom of how someone penetrated their security.

This is important to her. Garrison told us what she’d said to him about needing to change things in the city. We’re all determined to ensure that happens.

“Why would anyone tell you it’s a stupid idea?” I ask.

“Because you got shot.” She punches the bag again. “All easily avoided if you’d told me how dangerous this was.”

“It was more of a graze.”

She raises her brow in disbelief. I’d have stood a greater chance of convincing her if she hadn’t been in the room as Sadie stitched me up.

“Maybe it was a little more than that, but it’s healing fine and I’m not in pain.” Before she can ask to see the still painful wound that is definitely not a scratch, I focus on the punching bag. “Swing your hip and let your arm follow when you punch.”

“Swing my hip?”

I angle my body to the side, form a fist, and show her how to use your hip to add force to a punch. The motion pulls on my wound, but it’s nothing compared to being pinned in a burning car. “Like that. Your fist is there to deliver the blow. The power comes from your body.”

I repeat the motion twice more and she nods, attempting it herself.

“Excellent.” I nod in approval. “Now you just need to practice that fifty more times.”

Her eyes pop. “Fifty?”

“At least.”

A strand of hair falls from her ponytail into her face as she stares at me and it’s killing me not to tuck it behind her ear.

There’s no need to angle the punching bag so the manufacturer’s label is facing forward, but it’s better than putting my hands on Resa.

It’s a relief when she blows the distracting piece of hair out of her face.

Her concerned expression relaxes. “You’re joking.”

“I might be joking,” I concede. “A little.”

My dad wouldn’t have been joking. I learned how to fight through endless hours of practice. I pushed past pain, boredom, and exhaustion. The car crash taught me there are some things I couldn’t push through, but for the first time, I want to.

The hair falls back into her face and she goes cross-eyed blowing it up again. I try not to laugh as she blows and blows, but that stubborn bit of hair is determined to stay put.

I’m having another of those flash-forward moments or Resa staying, so I’m not paying attention when I should be. Suddenly, the thing I’m leaning my weight on is gone.

My back thumps to the ground, fortunately black rubber matting and not hard flooring, but it still steals the breath from my lungs.

My head is ringing when Resa’s face appears above me.

She’s on her knees beside me, dark eyes full of concern. “Shit. Are you okay? Should I get Vaughn or Garrison?”

“I’m okay.” I assure her. “That was a good hit. I didn’t see it coming.”

And I try, once again, to ignore that strand of silky looking hair I want to tuck behind her ear.

“Oh.” Her eyes dart to my mouth.

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