Page 22 of Sweetheart: Part One

But it was a long time since I’d been in my room with posters on the walls and packs to day-dream over. Ripped from the life I’d stitched together for myself with paperclips, dreams, and Aisha’s company, I’d been in survival mode since the day I was taken. Drake was no longer a pretty face on a poster like he had been the day I’d first matched him. The girl, capable of seeing only that—she didn’t know how good she’d had it.

I wasn’t her any more.

Now, Drake was my mate, my only hope, and the first person who’d made me feel truly safe in months. That meant a million times more, and was a million times more frightening.

EIGHT

LOVE

I waited a while before following Ebony into the gym.

Let him get some energy out first.

When I finally entered, I heard the hollow thunks ringing through the room, which meant he was practising batons on the wooden dummy in the far corner. A few years back we’d been in a movie in which his character had used baton fighting. He’d done what he did best and taken a crash course to learn how to use them.

It had stuck.

I think it was why he liked acting to be honest; chasing new things.

Sometimes I wondered if it was all he was made of anymore: chasing highs. Chasingfeeling.

He maintained an elegant image, with his long silver hair up in a ponytail, the chorded lean muscle of his chest and arms taut with exertion, and a sheen of glistening sweat on the dusk of his skin.

He ignored me as I approached.

“What happened?” I asked, sitting on a bench.

He’d been ignoring us all since yesterday, and a visit to the gym meant he was strained—if I hadn’t been able to infer that through the bond. He’d done an unexpectedly shitty job of keeping it closed over the last day.

I’d played his game and taken his bait; there were throbbing bruises across my body to prove that. I might—just might—get something from him for that.

I had to.

Scaring off Sweethearts was one thing—but Ebony was calculated and knew how to follow the rules.

Nothing about yesterday had been calculated.

As Ebony took another swing at the dummy, not glancing my way, I shoved back the little whisper, warning that it was more than just about him, or about our image as a pack.

Fury was out of character for me. It was simply a matter of space. Our pack bond couldn’t take more intensity with Ebony in it; he used up enough frustration for all of us combined. It was tiring—and I wasn’t the only one who felt it.

Right now though, the spark of rage at the thought of Vex’s pain was purely mine, since there was no way I’d have faced him without my bond tightly locked down.

Finally, when a few minutes had passed with no acknowledgment of me at all, I stood and approached. I didn’t flinch as one of the batons whistled by my face, almost connecting. He was a master with them, and he hated unfair fights. He wouldn’t land a blow if there weren’t two in my hands to start with.

He stopped at last as I leaned my shoulder against the wooden dummy, arms folded.

I didn’t repeat my question.

Silver eyes fixed on mine as he considered me, dropping his hands down to his sides, batons still in his fists.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” he said at last. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

I narrowed my eyes, but said nothing.

“It’s…” For a moment, his expression tensed, his eyes darting about as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. “It’s getting worse.”

I waited.

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