Page 7 of King of Violence

My knuckles sting with every punch, the bag absorbing each hit with a dull thud. Sweat drips down my temple, the salt stinging my eyes, but I don’t stop. The rhythm of my fists against the bag is the only thing keeping me from completely losing it.

I replay his words in my head, each one more infuriating than the last.

Just don’t forget to take a break sometime.

As if life is that simple. As if I have the luxury of slacking off for even a moment.

You’re cold and acting like you don’t have a heart.

The chain holding the bag creaks under the force of my next punch.

Julian Greco—Valmont’s golden boy, quarterback extraordinaire, and the guy who waltzes through life without a care in the world. He has no idea what it’s like to have the ground beneath your feet ripped away, to have to claw your way back to the surface just to survive.

My jaw tightens.

No. He couldn’t possibly understand.

I step back, breathing hard, my fists clenched at my sides. I catch my reflection in the gym’s mirrors—disheveled hair, a scowl etched so deep it might be permanent, and the shadows under my eyes that no amount of sleep will erase.

This is what survival looks like, not whatever charmed existence Julian Greco is living. Andof coursethe administration decided it’d be a great idea to pair me with the guy whose idea of a hard day is deciding which designer suit to wear after his next game.

The memory of his smirk flashes through my mind, and I feel a fresh wave of irritation. He thinks he’s clever, doesn’t he? Sitting there in the library, acting like he was doing me a favor by gracing me with his presence.

I rub my face with both hands, trying to shake off the frustration.

The punching bag sways slightly, mocking me. I move closer, plant my feet, and deliver another stiff jab.

A small part of me—one I refuse to acknowledge for longer than a second—remembers how his voice softened when he said it, how the low light reflected off his golden hair and tanned skin.

Take care of yourself.

“Idiot,” I mutter under my breath, shaking off the thought.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s late, and I have a full day ahead of me tomorrow: classes, work, and—unfortunately—my first session with Julian.

I grab my towel, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the showers.

The knot in my chest tightens as I think about tomorrow. I’ll be professional, of course. I have no choice. But there’s no way I’m letting him get under my skin.

Not again.

???

The study roomin the library feels more like a holding cell than a place of learning. The walls are a muted beige, the fluorescent lights cast a clinical glow, and the table in the center feels far too large for just two people. The tension in the air promises this session will be anything but smooth.

I glance at my watch: 10:02. He’s late.

Typical.

I tap my pen against the table like a metronome, each tap marking an increase in the mounting irritation bubbling inside me.

I’ve already set up the materials—a laptop, a stack of notes, and a printed schedule for what we need to cover. I didn’t sign up to tutor anyone, let alone Julian Greco, Valmont’s resident golden boy. But apparently, the administration thought it would be a good use of my time.

The door swings open with a dramatic creak, and Julian strides in like he owns the place.

“Morning,” he says with a cocky grin, as if he hasn’t just wasted two minutes of my life. He’s wearing a Valmont hoodieand joggers, his hair slightly mussed. There’s an air of effortless charm about him, the kind that makes people forgive tardiness and overlook flaws.

“You’re late,” I reply, not looking up from the syllabus I’ve been pretending to read.

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