Page 60 of Oathbreaker

I could exist, but I wasn’t living. I didn’t start living until…Winter.

I close my eyes and focus on Winter’s face. In the vision that materializes behind my lids, she kneels for me—in the same position she took before me in her shower all those months ago.

Instead of her innocent, fragile gaze staring up at me, she’s bound. Gagged. Helpless to me, so she has no other choice but to submit.

“Fuck!” The thought has me doubled over, clutching my abdomen as the contents of my stomach threaten to make a reappearance.

Is that what I want for her? For us? How does that make me better than Adam Collins?

I pace the length of the room again, back and forth, trying to school my breathing, but it doesn’t work.

Nothing fucking works.

With Winter, I can’t fall into the same patterns I’ve used before to make myself feel better. But is this really about me feeling better?

I shake my head at the thought.

No. This is about her trusting me fully and knowing that I can take care of her because I can. Because I do.

I’m not steeped in this impotence and failure that plagues me every moment of every day.

Weak.

I’m weak.

I return to the punching bag, not letting up until my fists slip on the leather from my blood.

I bend over at the waist, drawing in massive gulps of air. The floor wobbles as I stare.

“Shit,” I press out, stumbling over to the dumbbells. I lean against the rack and force my eyes to stay open against the salty burn of sweat.

And tears.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I repeat, but each utterance turns into a sob. My fingers curl around the weights. And then, not unlike the snap of a rubber band, I break.

I scream, howl, and the mirrors on the walls shake with the force of my voice and my rage.

Taking the twenty-five-pound weight, I fling it toward my reflection, hoping the resulting crash would tip me over the edge and into calm.

It doesn’t. Instead, as the shards of tempered glass shatter all over the rubber-coated floors, everything spins.

My body—my soul is on fire.

And I don’t know how to put it out.

“Goddamn it!” I return to the bag and jab-jab-jab.

I punch the bag for Winter.

I punch the bag for August.

Jab. Jab. Jab.

I punch the bag for me.

I unleash all the agony trapped in my chest from all that has happened in the last month, year, lifetime and deliver one final punch to the bag before collapsing on the ground.

Breathe.

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