Page 18 of Cipher's Baby Girl
Hawk shakes his head. "You sure about this? Last time you could barely walk for three days."
"I'm sure." My voice comes out like gravel. We both know that a monster with my skill set could take Hawk down in under thirty seconds at full capacity. These handicaps are not just to make the fight fair—they're to ensure I receive the pain I'm seeking.
He sighs, stepping onto the mat. "Your funeral, brother."
Hawk is the only one who understands this arrangement, this need I have to be punished when my control slips. As the club's enforcer and former Army Ranger, he has the skills to hurt me without killing me, and the discretion not to ask questions.
"Rules?" he asks, circling me.
"Don't hold back."
Something like concern flashes across his face. "That bad, huh?"
I don't answer, just raise my free hand in a fighting stance. Hawk sighs again, then moves with blinding speed, his fist connecting with my ribs before I can fully block. Pain explodes through my side—a clean hit, possibly a cracked rib.
Good. Perfect. This is what I need.
I counter with a jab that he easily avoids, leaving me open for a knee to the stomach that doubles me over. The air rushes from my lungs, spots dancing in my vision.
"Does this mean I have to beat the shit out of you again?" he asks conversationally, landing another brutal blow to my side.
"Shut up and fight," I growl, back on my feet, swinging wildly, deliberately allowing my technique to deteriorate in a way I never would in a real combat situation.
Hawk obliges, his fists finding every vulnerability in my defense. Blood fills my mouth as his elbow connects with my jaw, the coppery taste familiar and grounding. Pain blooms across my body, bright and clarifying. With each blow, Rose's face recedes a little further from my mind, replaced by the immediate reality of physical suffering.
I land a few hits of my own—enough to make it feel like a fight rather than the beating we both know it is. I'm here to be punished, to pay penance for daring to touch something pure when my soul is so tainted.
By the time Hawk decides I've had enough, I'm on my knees, blood dripping from a cut above my eye, my ribs screaming in protest with each labored breath. He stands over me, shaking his head.
"Whatever demon you're fighting, brother, this isn't the way to beat it."
I spit blood onto the mat. "Works for me."
"No, it doesn't." He tosses me a towel. "It really doesn’t."
I press the towel against the cut on my eyebrow, watching as it soaks through with red. "Did I ask for your fucking opinion?"
"No, but you're getting it anyway." He crouches down to my level. "This thing with Rose?—"
My head snaps up. "Who said anything about Rose?"
"You didn't have to. The whole club sees how you look at her." He sighs, running a hand through his short hair. "Look, whatever you think you don't deserve, whatever you're punishing yourself for—that's between you and your demons. But dragging an innocent girl into your self-hatred? That's not right, man."
After he leaves, I remain on the mat, letting the pain wash through me in cleansing waves. My body is a map of old and new injuries—the scar tissue from captivity now joined by fresh bruises and cuts. External manifestations of internal damage.
Eventually, I drag myself to my feet, retrieving my shirt and cut from the bench. Each movement sends fresh pain shooting through my abused ribs. I welcome it, focusing on the physical discomfort rather than the deeper ache that's taken up residence in my chest since I walked away from Rose.
My room is dark when I finally make it there, collapsing onto the bed still in my jeans. I should clean the cuts, check for serious damage, but exhaustion pulls me under before I can summon the energy to care.
Sleep brings no relief, only the familiar nightmares—enhanced tonight by fresh guilt and self-loathing.
"Tell us about Operation Blackbird," The Professor’s voice is clinical, detached, as he selects a tool from the tray beside him. The metal instruments clink against each other.
I remain silent. Naked. Tied to a metal table.
He nods to his assistant, who places electrodes on my chest, my genitals, the soles of my feet. The cold metal sticks to my sweat-slicked skin.
The first jolt of electricity tears a scream from my throat that I can't suppress. My muscles contract violently, teeth clamping down on my tongue. Blood fills my mouth.
