Page 172 of Captive Omega

I walk over to the large black basket beside the punching bag and pull out a pair of boxing gloves and a roll of black fabric hand wraps to show her. The only reason none of it is dusty from years of disuse is because of the cleaner who comes early once a week. “See?”

She slowly wanders over. “Why do you have to do it?”

“It’s hard to do them tight enough on your own, and they need to be tight to protect your hands. Try hitting the punching bag. Not hard though,” I warn her.

She hits it harder than she should and winces, rubbing her knuckles on her thigh. “Ow. What’s it made out of?”

“Grain. But you can get others with sand.” I toss the gloves back into the basket until I need them and lift a roll of fabric. “You ready for me to wrap your hands?”

She eyes the punching bag with interest.

It wasn’t long ago she wouldn’t even sit at the same table as me. Now here I am asking her if she’s okay with me wrapping her hands. Does her trust extend that far, or will she walk out of here?

She turns to me and offers her hands, surprising the hell out of me. “Okay. This looks like it might be fun.”

I wrap her left hand. “Because you get to imagine you’re punching an alpha?”

“How did you guess?” Her voice is dry.

I smile as I continue my task.

“What’s that?” she asks, watching me wrap the soft, stretchy black material with Velcro ends around her hand and wrist.

“A hand wrap. It helps protect all the important things: knuckles, thumb, your wrists. Means you can hit harder without worrying about breaking something.”

I spent years doing this in the boxing gym my dad used to own. I sparred constantly, and when I wasn’t sparring, I was helping new members.

“How did you learn this?” she asks.

“My dad owned a gym.”

“He doesn’t still have it?”

I shake my head. “The cost of renting a space in the building went up and he couldn’t afford it. The business folded, but it was fun while it lasted. For me and him.”

He found a new job training a promising young boxer on the other side of the country until he retired. I spoke to him more before the car crash, but after Mom died when I was in high school, we were never as close. That’s on me though. I don’t make it easy for anyone to get close.

A career in security felt like a natural next step, since I wasn’t interested in boxing professionally. I liked working out though, and I got to pass on the skills I’d learned, something I didn’t realize how much I missed until I started Resa’s self-defense lessons.

Years of experience means I can wrap someone's hands half-asleep with my eyes closed. At this point, it’s muscle memory, barely requiring any thought.

I pick up the boxing gloves and place them on her, one at a time, using the Velcro straps to secure them. They’re a little too big for her, but the Velcro means they’ll stay put.

I lift my gaze from her hands to her face. “You ready?”

She’s studying the gloves with fascination. “This is so weird.”

“Bad weird?”

She shakes her head, her smile wry. “I wonder what thing you’ll teach me tomorrow. Maybe how to take someone out with a poisoned dart?”

She looks so hopeful that I laugh and point at the bag. “No poisoned dart lessons coming up. What did you want to talk about?”

She gives the punching bag a tap. Her face is tense, as if she’s bracing herself for it to hurt. When it doesn’t, she punches it even harder.

“The trial,” she says simply. “No one is telling me it’s a stupid idea for me to speak at it, and you should.”

I hesitate.

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