Page 13 of The Dark Before Light

When I hear the front door close, my curiosity becomes too much. I slow and turn to face Kieran. He stops and regards me impassively, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Are you in danger?” I ask.

“You tell me,” he drawls.

When I merely stare at him, he releases a small sigh. “Not right now, no.” He pauses, his voice lowering. “I trust those men with my life, and so should you.”

I consider this and finally nod, knowing better than to ask for details. Like whether there have been threats or attempts on his life. We’re not there yet—might never be—so for now I file the information away.

Down the hallway, I stop at the third door on the right. Kieran stops behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of his body. I glance over my shoulder and crane my neck, waiting for him to notice the invasion of my personal space. His eyes widen slightly, like he’s surprised by how close we are. He doesn’t apologize, but he does take a smooth step backward so he’s no longer looming over me.

Blue eyes dance over my features before veering over my head. “Interesting place you’ve got here.” His bland tone doesn’t fully disguise his skepticism.

I smile slightly. “It gets better.”

I open the door and step inside, waiting for him to follow before closing it. The long room boasts a single large table, the surface cluttered with a disjointed mix of items: old televisions, computer monitors, glassware, lamps, cheap pottery, empty wine bottles, and more. Past the table is an empty space with a giant X spray-painted on the floor. Unlike the other three walls, which are plywood and plaster, the wall behind the X is thick cement.

Kieran looks around, a faint line between his brows as if he’s just now realized what he signed up for. As he surveys the rack of protective gear beside us, his shoulders lift a fraction. When he sees the hanging hammers and bats, they lift even more.

His cues of increasing discomfort—as minor as they are—are normal for those who have extreme, repressed emotions. An invitation to unchain the beast that lives within each of us is an inherently scary prospect. When it’s not a little frightening? That’s a cause for concern.

“Never been to a rage room, I’m guessing?” I ask as I pull a jumpsuit off a hook and hand it to him. XL because the man is a literal giant.

“No,” he grunts.

He stares at the coarse fabric in his hands long enough that I wonder if he’s going to bail. Then he blinks and turns away to pull off his sweatshirt, tossing it to the floor beneath the bats. Hesitance leaks from every jerky movement of his limbs as he steps into the jumpsuit and zips it up.

I make a split-second decision and grab one for myself, pulling it on swiftly over my clothes. Another break from habit; I usually let my clients have the space to themselves, observing via CCTV from my onsite office. I don’t dwell on it—every client is different. And this one might be the most different I’ve ever had.

I swipe a pair of protective glasses and gloves, and he does the same.

“What are the rules?” he asks, voice as tense as his shoulders.

Striding to the table, I grab a wine bottle and hurl it hard at the cement wall. It shatters on impact, raining glass over the X.

I smile back at him. “Who said anything about rules?”

An hour later, I hand Kieran one of the water bottles I retrieved from the fridge in my office. He accepts it with a mumbled, “Thanks,” and drains it in a series of convulsive swallows.

A bead of sweat drips from his hairline to his jaw. His skin is flushed. The top half of the jumpsuit hangs loose around his waist, exposing a damp black T-shirt that clings to his chest and stomach. After an initial, purely selfish perusal of his muscled arms, I make it a point to ignore them. Especially the veins in his forearms and the freckles strewn across them like grains of sand.

“Your sweat smells like alcohol,” I say after taking a sip of water.

A smirk tilts his lips. “I’d be surprised if it didn’t.”

I take another sip. “How do you feel?”

He studies the mess we made. The painted X is barely visible beneath the destruction. Behind us, the table is empty.

A delayed chill skates down my spine as I reflect on Kieran’s rage. Mostly silent. Deceptively mild. Like an earthquake deep in the ocean that isn’t felt until its result—a tsunami—hits land.

I broke the wine bottle, a lamp, and a porcelain bowl.

He obliterated everything else.

“Tired,” he answers. There’s a long pause. “I still don’t want to talk about my problems.”

“I don’t recall asking about them.”

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