Page 61 of The Payback

Besides all of that, I’m constantly stuck in this apartment building, just compiling and sending videos—basically, doing jack shit.

Striking at the bag, I let out my frustrations.

I miss my kid. I miss my home. I miss Olivia. I miss my nonconflicted headspace.

The walls are closing in around me.

Logically, I know agents go through this when they’re undercover. There’s an adjustment period, and I was even warned about this phase, but none of it matters when I’ve never been very good at sitting still and waiting for things to happen.

Hence the call to Sergei.Thatis something I can make happen.

Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision, but I am relentless in my attacks. A sob chokes me as I ponder the lines I’ve crossed upstairs. With Dimitriandwith Nik. Because, evidently, once was not enough to learn.

Deep in my heart, I know I will keep Dimitri’s involvement in Alexei’s murder to myself. Nor will I tell Interpol or the other connected agencies about Nik killing the Irishman in the kitchen.

As often as I tell myself I am a good agent, my actions show otherwise.

I yell as I land a series of one-two punches on the bag. Sweat drips down my back as angry tears stain my face. The salty sting is welcomed at this point, so I don’t force myself to stop—to bottle it all up the way I usually would.

I feel like punishing myself; this is the only way I can think of doing it.

A vortex of emotions swirls in my mind—shame, regret, indignation, and, last but not least, disgust.

What kind of agent am I if I let these things go?

A terrible one, my mind whispers.

I wrap my arms around the punching bag and let my body sink against it, my knees weak and muscles tired. Closing my eyes, I breathe as I gather my thoughts.

I have to choose: Go all in or all out because straddling the line isn’t working.

“Feel better?” a voice asks from my left.

I look up, shoving some of my loosened hair from my forehead, and my eyes connect with Nik. He’s sitting casually on a weight bench, like he’s been there for hours.

“No. What are you doing here, Nik?” I ask, wiping under my nose with the back of my wrist. My hands are taped, and there’s blood on my knuckles.

I startle at the discovery, and everything inside me comes crashing down: adrenaline, anger, and morality break against the rocks like a wave. At least the bullet graze on my arm is feeling better. There’s just some mottled skin and the angry pink scar to contend with now.

As he goes to move from his weight bench, I throw an arm out, stopping him from coming any closer.

“Don’t,” I push out between gritted teeth.

“You’re hurt. Let me see. Let me fucking help you.”

“No, not you,” I answer. We may have had a moment in Nik’s room wherein he was calm, kind, and possibly honest for once.

But I don’t want that right now. I don’t want comfort. I don’t want to feel coddled. I want someone to take their anger out on me the way I deserve for crossing lines and blurring everything into an emotional mess.

And Nik? He’s too wrapped up in everything to be the person I need for that right now.

“Suit yourself, but don’t get blood on the mats,” he says, shocking me as he settles back against the bench and heeds my earlier reply by keeping his distance.

My laugh starts low and builds in my chest until I’m doubled over, gasping for air and clutching my side. “Don’t get blood on the mats,” I repeat incredulously. “Oh, that is rich, considering you painted half the kitchen in blood a few weeks ago.”

He lets out his dark laugh then, and I hear the flick of a lighter before looking over at him.

“You’re seriously going to smoke in the gym?” I ask.

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