Page 57 of Kortlek

I grab a pair of boxing gloves and put them on my hands. Since I’m already here, it wouldn’t be too bad to blow off some steam. I’m beyond angry. My shoulders are stiff, and the anger boils in my blood. This entire situation with Wyatt is frustrating.

Right now, the fear is gone.

However, the moment I meet him again, I’ll freeze up again.

I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to get rid of the paralyzing fear that consumes my mind and body. It doesn’t help that the nightmares have returned, too. It’s never a specific situation Wyatt put me through.

It’s always a vile scene, straight out of a horror movie. The demons have his face, his voice, and that brutal laughter of his. It’s enough to wake me up in screams and cold sweat. They’re not as frequent as they used to be, but since I can’t tell when they’ll reappear, I try my best to stay awake for as long as possible.

It’s not a solution.

I’m too scared to tell anyone. I don’t want to worry my parents, Arlo, or Cove. I don’t want them to know just how utterly helpless I’m feeling. Each day, the feeling of dread grows more and more, and I don’t know when I’ll snap.

Telling Cove seems like the most logical thing to do, but he has his hands full as it is. He’s helping Arlo constantly to track down where the Vipers are hiding, who they’re in contact with, and how big their connections are.

I don’t want to add it onto his plate. He’d worry and most likely lock me up in a basement until this entire thing is over. But I can’t let him do that. It’d be too cowardly of me to let him shoulder all of my burdens.

My breathing is still rough from the exercises I did, and with a small breath, I step in front of the punching bag. My eyes close momentarily as I try to concentrate, and once I open them, all I see is Wyatt.

My fists hit the bag repeatedly, and it goes on for what seems to be an hour. I’m not looking where or how I’m hitting — but I’m fucking hitting, imagining Wyatt instead of the punching bag. My body warms up, sweat dripping down my forehead. The back of my shirt is soaked, and soon enough I start using my legs, too.

“That is fucking terrible.’’

I freeze lightly and then slowly turn around. My heart starts beating furiously in my chest at the sight of Cove leaning against the door frame of the basement, arms folded in front of his chest. I try not to ogle his form, his perfect muscles outlined by the compression shirt, and the way the grey sweatpants look on him.

He looks edible.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to catch my breath. I hold onto the punching bag to stop it from swaying, then take off the gloves and grab a new bottle of water. Once I’m seated on the blue mat underneath, Cove pushes himself off the door frame and strolls toward me.

He grabs the towel from the bench and starts dabbing away the sweat.

“I wanted to see what you were up to since you weren’t answering my texts,’’ he mumbles, setting the towel away and taking a seat in front of me, legs sprawled in front of him.

“I’ve been here for,’’ I trail off, glancing at the clock across from me and frowning, “an hour and a half.’’

My shoulders slump. It truly felt like an eternity. I thought I was here for at least two and a half hours. Damn, I’ve gotten too lazy.

“An hour and a half is too long,’’ he grunts.

“I’m having a hard time believing my father just let you in.’’

“He’s not at home. This is Noelle’s and mine secret,’’ he gives me a devilish smirk, and I roll my eyes.

“Of course,’’ I draw out.

He raises an amused brow. “But let’s talk about something serious. Your form is terrible, and if you continue to hit the bag like that, you’ll break your fingers.’’

My eyes briefly glance down at my lap, where I’m fiddling with my fingers. My knuckles are red, and I realize that he is right — not that I’ll ever admit that out loud. I did hit it with all the strength I had, and I clearly did it wrong.

“Let’s focus on Wyatt.’’ I switch the subject, noticing the way Cove’s expression hardens. “What did you and Arlo find out?”

“Now that you mention it,’’ he pauses for a moment. A small squeak comes from me when I feel his hands on my hips. With ease, Cove lifts me up and puts me on his lap, arms immediately wrapping around my waist, tugging me as close as humanly possible. “I found out something very, very interesting.’’

I raise a curious brow. “Oh?”

“Mhm,’’ he nods. “Apparently, one very pretty girl was seen at this certain bar,’’ his voice drops an octave, his fingers slowly brushing up my side. “She had white streaks in her hair, and she looked awfully a lot like you. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”

My body tenses, and he immediately notices. His eyebrow lifts slightly, carefully observing for any reaction from me. I didn’t expect he’d find out that soon, and I’m unprepared for the conversation. I laugh softly, nervously, and look away.

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