Page 31 of Shattered By Grace

She couldn’t stop thinking about the club. Was the fighting ring really in the basement, like the rumors said? Her father had kept so much from her, and now, staring at the wall where his pictures sat, the weight of it all crashed down on her. How deep into this mess were the twins? She knew the underground fighting wasn’t just a game to the Lockes. It was a cover for something much darker, something her father had clearly been involved in.

Frustrated and unable to sit still, she dragged herself to the kitchen. Her hands were shaky as she grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filling it with cold water. She hoped the liquid would cool the restless energy that thrummed beneath her skin, but it did nothing to ease the knot of tension in her chest.

Leaning against the counter, she stared blankly at the wall, but her mind was miles away. On Tristan, on Tyson, on the club, on everything. Every detail of the night, every unanswered question, swirled together in a tangled mess she couldn’t undo. No matter how hard she tried to piece it together, one truth haunted her: She was in too deep. Deeper than she ever planned to be. And no one else had a clue.

Setting the empty glass down with more force than she meant, she exhaled sharply.How the hell did I let it get this far?

Still in her dress, her nerves crackling with unresolved tension, she stalked over to the corner of her living room where the punching bag hung. The soft sway of it in the dim light was like a silent sentinel, but it did little to calm her mind. If anything, it only made her more agitated.

With practiced precision, Victoria slipped on her gloves, the leather biting into her hands with an almost desperate energy. Usually, the familiar rhythm of wrapping her hands brought a sense of calm, a brief moment of focus but tonight, it did nothing. Nothing could untangle the mess of thoughts spiraling out of control in her head.

The Lockes. She knew better.I knew they were trouble and needed to avoid them at all costs. She’d told herself that. Over and over. Yet here she was, tangled in their world, suffocating in secrets, with no goddamn idea how to untangle herself from the mess.

With a furious snarl, she threw her first punch, the satisfying thud of impact reverberating through her arms. The bag rocked back. Again. Another hit, harder this time. Her body moved on autopilot, the burn in her muscles distracting her from the storm that raged inside. The rhythm became her anchor, the only thing holding her together as she threw herself into each punch.

Each strike was a release, a way to channel the mix of fear, anger, and confusion swirling inside her. But no matter how fast she hit, no matter how much force she put into it, the thoughts wouldn’t stop.

Tristan’s body. Lifeless. Tyson’s unreadable expression. The blood that stained everything like a dark omen.

Her punches came faster now, the force of her blows quickening, growing more brutal with each strike. The sound of her gloves slapping against the bag echoed through the empty room, drowning out her racing heart, the pounding in her head.

“Why did it have to be them?” she hissed between clenched teeth, the words a bitter, jagged release. Her fist connected with the bag again, so hard it made the whole thing swing violently.Why the hell did it have to be them?

Suddenly, a loud banging on her door shattered the intensity of the moment.

“Hey, knock it off! It’s three in the morning!” her neighbor’s voice rang out, frustration clear.

Victoria paused, chest heaving as she glared at the door. For a second, she considered snapping back, but instead, she gritted her teeth and muttered under her breath, “Sorry.”

With a deep breath, she turned back to the bag, determined to finish what she started.

“Just great,” she muttered. “As if I didn’t have enough problems already.”

Ignoring the grumbling outside, she kept going, but the neighbor’s interruption dulled her focus. The images of Tristan’s blood, Tyson’s cold gaze, Razer’s booming voice…each one lingered.

With every punch, the tension eased a little, but she knew the real fight wasn’t over. Then came the pounding again, harder this time.

“Knock it off! I’ll call the cops if you don’t!”

Victoria ripped off her gloves, tossing them aside. “Fine, I’m done!” she snapped, then added under breath, “I need a shower anyway.”

The adrenaline still buzzed in her veins, but fatigue was creeping in, dragging her limbs into sluggishness. She glanced at the clock, debating a trip to the gym to burn off the rest of her energy. It was tempting. There, she could drown out the noise in her head, lose herself in the rhythm of it all.

But sleep was calling. Her eyelids felt heavy, and no matter how much she resisted, her body demanded rest. “Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “Like I’ll get any decent rest tonight.”

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. Overthinking wouldn’t change anything, tomorrow would bring its own problems. Right now, she needed sleep. She couldn’t face the Lockes, Razer, Justin, or whatever mess she’d fallen into if she was dead on her feet.

Leaving the punching bag behind, she dragged herself to the bathroom. The shower was waiting, but her mind was already racing with unanswered questions, buried secrets, and the impossible task of staying above it all.

The scalding water poured over her, stripping away the night’s tension, the sweat, the weight of the past, and the unraveling mysteries she couldn’t quite piece together. It was just her now, the hiss of the water, the illusion of solitude.

But solitude was a lie.

Because in the quiet, her mind drifted back.

Back to him.

Tristan.

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