Page 73 of Promises in the Dark

Fuck, the bag felt like it was made of steel today. I was throwing everything I’ve got into these punches, but it just wouldn’t budge. My knuckles were killing me, and I felt the blood dripping down my fist. You’d think they’d have better equipment in a military base gym, but hey, we were here to break our bodies, not work out properly.

This gym was a pit. Dark, musty, reeking of sweat from a thousand guys before me. Ceiling leaking like a goddamn faucet, dust covering everything, but it beat going outside and getting bombarded with more bullshit training exercises or whatever mindless crap the higher-ups decided was essential to make us ‘better soldiers’.

My fists were flying, each hit hard enough to crack bone. The bag almost felt like it was screaming, but I didn’t care—Ineededthis. The frustration and anger, it was tearing me up inside. My body just needed to let loose, and I did. Fuck, I did.

I wanted to drown myself in whiskey and forget everything, just drink my way into oblivion. But no. Instead, I was here, beating the shit out of a bag, trying to convince myself this was the right thing to do.

My fists crackled and popped as my fight or flight response kicked into high gear. The job had been a bitch today—endless ops[2] briefings with Captain Asshat and sifting through piles of pointless reports that qualified as a war report around here.

Fucking circus.

I needed to beat the shit out of something, and this bag was as good a target as any. It was heavy, hanging from the ceiling in a room painted a flat, ugly green. It stank of body odor and old leather but that was the least of my worries as I stepped forward, swinging hard. The impact echoed through the room, my fist hitting the soft, squishy surface of the bag with an audible smack.

Then there washer.Red. She was everything I fucking hated—weak, soft, and way too good-looking for her own good. She’s got this fucking smile that just wouldn’t quit, and those fucking eyes that just seemed to look right through me. And then there was her laugh. It was like music to my ears, but at the same time, it was like a hammer hitting me in the chest.

She was a breath of fresh air, and I fucking hated it.

I hated her for getting under my skin, for making me care. I’ve been in this game long enough to know better, but here I was, like a fucking moron, falling for her.

What a goddamn idiot.

We were both screwed. I was beating the shit out of this bag, and she was probably crying herself to sleep because shecouldn’t figure out why she still let that piece of shit walk all over her.

Great job, Rogue. Real fucking hero.

And don’t even get me started on Viper. That dumbass nearly got himself killed earlier today. Guy’s stable now, but he’s a walking disaster. I swear, if he keeps pulling this reckless shit, I’m gonna lose my mind. I can’t stand the thought of him—or anyone—dying on my watch. So yeah, add that to the pile of crap I’ve got to deal with.

I was angry with myself. Angry that I let my guard down for her. Angry that I let myself feel something for her. But most of all, I was angry that she listened to that asshole. That she couldn’t see the truth— he’dneverstop hurting her. That he was toxic to the core.

“Fuck!” I roared, hunching my shoulders and throwing my entire weight into the bag, pulling it toward the center of its heavy steel chain anchor.

The heavy, dull thud of my fist connecting with the bag was the sweetest sound in the world, as if every punch I threw was a direct hit on the bastard’s face.

The bag swung back, but it was not much compared to the force I was putting into it. My hands hurt from the friction of the bag, my knuckles raw and rubbed raw but it was not enough.

I needed more.

One arm came back, fist cocked back. I swung with all my might, connecting with a sickening crunch. The canvas on the floor beneath my feet shook with the impact, throwing off the balance. The bag swung back, my knuckles screaming in agony. I swear, it has more life than a zombie after a headshot.

I wasn’t sure if it was the sweat dripping down my forehead, stinging my eyes, or the sheer physical exhaustion that was making me see stars, but I couldn’t keep going.

One more punch. Two more punches.

Three. Four. Five.

This was better.

I punched the bag one last time, my arm aching from the strain. I backed away, breathing heavily, the sweat dripping down my face. I looked at the clock on the wall, seeing how long I’ve been in here. An hour? Two? I didn’t fucking know, and I didn’t fucking care.

I caught my breath, wiping the sweat from my brow. Everything felt hazy, and I couldn’t quite focus. My vision was blurred, and my mind was racing.

At least for now, the rage was gone. But deep down, I knew it’d be back.

And so wouldhe.

Then I stopped, my chest heaving, gasping like a fucking animal as I leaned hard on the bag. My hands were a bloody wreck, knuckles torn to shit, but it didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered anymore. I wasn’t even a man at this point—just some hollow shell, drowning in my own stupidity and the chaos I dragged along with me.

I collapsed onto the cold, filthy floor, panting like I’d just run from hell itself. My vision started to blur, and I almost welcomed that creeping darkness, but of course, that’s when I heard footsteps. Just my luck. Pyro strolled in like nothing was wrong.

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