Page 112 of Unbroken

She strode toward us with purpose, the black canvas bag she carried with her slung over her shoulder and her arms crossed over her chest. The expression on her beautiful face was hard to read, but I could sense the anger in her slightly narrowed eyes and the straight, set line of her lips.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I said cautiously. Tossing my towel onto the bench, I took a step toward her, then another. Her eyes softened slightly as she tilted her head back.

“Hi,” she said softly and accepted the quick kiss I placed on her lips.

“What are you doing here?”

The hardness returned to her expression, and I was immediately on high alert. This wasn’t a surprise visit because she just couldn’t stand not seeing me. Something had happened since I’d left her that morning, orgasm-drunk and happy in my bed with both Tato and Stormy at her sides.

I opened my mouth to ask her, but she shook her head like she already knew what I intended to say.

“I’ll tell you about it later. I just—” She peeked around me until her eyes landed on Reed. “Do you have punching bags here?”

Reed’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded all the same. He quickly looked at me as he hiked his thumb over his shoulder. “Yeah, in the back. Want me to show you?”

She inclined her head and walked around me. “I’ll need gloves, too.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve got some you can use.”

The two of them walked farther into the gym while the rest of us stood there surprised by the entire interaction.

“Based on the look on your face,” James said, “I’m going to guess that you didn’t know she was coming.”

All I could do was shake my head as Blakely tossed her bagagainst the wall and held her fists up for Reed to help her fit the gloves over her hands. He was talking to her, but they were too far away for me to hear anything. And although she nodded along with whatever he said, I could tell her mind was elsewhere.

Something was wrong, and I hated not knowing what it was. I needed to fix it.

Reed said something else to her, and she shook her head. He stood next to her and began showing her how to throw a punch, which she intently watched for several seconds before nodding and motioning to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling.

With another quick, wary look in my direction, Reed poised behind the bag, holding it away from himself and in position for Blakely. She raised her hands and stepped up to the bag with one foot in front of the other.

She took a deep breath and punched. One punch turned into two, then three, then she was furiously pounding away at the bag in front of her. And I was striding across the gym before I realized my feet were moving.

I tapped Reed’s shoulder, and he stepped aside. I took up his spot behind the bag as he rejoined the rest of the guys where I’d left them.

But all my attention was on the woman in front of me. Each punch was solid against the bag, reverberating through the leather and vibrating up my arms. I held on tighter and watched her face contort in concentration.

Sweat began beading on her forehead, and her breath came in quick, sharp pants. She hadn’t noticed that Reed and I had swapped, her attention wholly focused on the bag and the movement of her arms.

Minutes passed with no sign of her lightening up. My arms grew sore just from holding the bag when she finally stepped away, her arms dropping limply to her sides as she struggled for air. Her eyes had grown distant, but I was happy to see thatwhen she finally looked up, she registered me standing behind the bag.

“Dev, when did you—” she panted, motioning between the guys who’d resumed their workout and me just in front of her. “I didn’t realize you’d—” Her words cut off again as she sucked in a long breath through her nose.

“We switched about ten minutes ago. Do you feel better now?”

“A little.”

“Great,” I said, stepping around the bag until I was directly in front of her. “Now, tell me why you needed to do that.”

She closed her eyes and sighed before she turned and kneeled in front of her bag. When she stood back up and turned, her phone was in her hand. She handed it to me and began removing the boxing gloves from her hands.

The picture on her screen was of a bunch of black roses that appeared to be stuffed in a mailbox.

“Swipe, there’s more,” she instructed, not looking up from her task.

I swiped, and the next picture was more of the same as was the following one, but the fourth picture showed letters written on the inside of several petals. My initial shock had already begun to give way to anger before I flipped the phone to better read the word.

But when I registered what the letters spelled—broken—that anger morphed into outrage. I immediately understood her need to hit something. The desire welled up inside me just the same.

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