Page 44 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
I throw a real punch.
Not sparring contact. Not training intensity. A real hit meant to hurt.
Hank slips it by millimeters, counters by taking me down hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. His knee settles across my chest, pinning me down.
“You done?” he asks.
Instead of answering, I buck hard, use my hips to throw him off balance, then scramble to my feet. This isn’t sparring anymore.
This is fighting.
“You don’t get it,” I growl, circling him like a predator. “You never get it. Everything is just a tactical problem to solve. But she’s not a fucking variable, Hank. She’s?—”
“What?” His voice carries an edge now, control fraying. “What is she, Gabe?”
“Mine.” The word tears out of me raw and primal.
“What the fuck?” Hank’s voice explodes, all that controlled precision shattered. “Yours? She’s yours?” His hands slam into my chest, driving me backward. “I’ve heard a lot ofme’sandmine’sout of you lately. You’re a fucking bastard, she’sOURS. I’m dying on the inside just like you, and you going off the deep end isn’t helping anyone. It sure as shit isn’t helping Ally.”
He lands a series of punches—hard, precise hits to my ribs, my shoulder, each hit punctuating his words. I block what I can, but his rage finds its target.
“That better be the last fucking time you claim her as your own, fucktard. She belongs to both of us.”
“Shit, is that what this is about? A pronoun?”
“When you start claiming her asyoursinstead ofours, you bet that’s what this is about.” His voice breaks on the last word—raw, guttural, not just anger but pain. I barely register the shift before his fist slams into my jaw. White-hot pain explodes behind my eyes as my head jerks to the side with a crack.
“She belongs to both of us,” he snarls, following it up with a punch to my ribs that knocks the air from my lungs. “Not just you. Not just me.Us. She doesn’t belong to you.”
“Shit, it was just a?—”
His fist crashes into my face again, fiercer this time. No holding back. No warning. My vision blurs, and blood fillsmy mouth. I stumble, trying to stay upright, but he’s already moving.
He drives his knee into my gut. My body folds, instincts screaming, but there’s no time to recover. His elbow slams down across my back like a battering ram, dropping me hard to the mats.
I hit with a grunt, stunned. The room spins.
“You selfish piece of shit,” Hank spits, voice cracking like thunder. “You think you’re the only one who loves her? You think you’re the only one who’s fucking destroyed?”
Another kick to my ribs as I try to get up. Real violence. Calculated brutality from a man who’s spent years learning exactly how to hurt people.
“I held her when she had nightmares about Kazakhstan. I watched her smile when she felt safe again. I felt her trust when she submitted to me.” Each word comes with another strike—fists, knees, elbows. “She’s mine too, you fucking psychopath.”
I roll away, blood in my mouth, but Hank follows. Relentless. His boot catches me in the shoulder, spinning me across the mat.
“Every second she’s gone, I die a little more. Every breath feels like I’m drowning, but I don’t get to fall apart because someone has to think clearly enough to get her back.”
He drops down, pins me with his knee across my throat. Pressure building. Stars dancing at the edges of my vision.
“And you…” His voice drops to something deadly, unrecognizable. “You want to throw it all away because you can’t handle sharing her with me. Is that what this is? You think she’s fucking yours?”
“She may call you Sir, but she kneels for me. Suffers for me.” I drive my elbow into his ribs, hard. “She cries for me.”
Hank freezes for a split second—just enough.
I twist, break the chokehold, and slam my forearm into his throat as we flip. We’re both bleeding, panting, torn between killing each other and collapsing under the weight of what we’ve lost.
I refuse to tap out. Use dirty techniques to break free. Elbow strikes that would be illegal in competition. The controlled violence we usually share becomes something uglier. More personal.
