Page 66 of Hell to Pay

I took myself through my usual workout, warming up on the treadmill before moving on to free weights and the big medicine ball in the corner that was great for core work.

Then, the routine stuff out of the way, I spent a half hour working with the sparring mannequin. It was always a little weird at first, kicking and punching something that looked vaguely human but didn’t fight back, but after a while I settled into a series of punches and kicks that Locke had taught me in our Krav Maga classes.

When I was panting and out of breath I stopped to check my heart rate, then cooled down with my knife and the wooden target. I’d always felt pretty proficient with my knife, but the target showed me I had work to do. I couldn’t quite get it where I wanted it to go — I was always off by just an inch or two — and I was excited to work more with it while I stayed with the Bastards.

I was loose and tired, but the workout had been the right call. I could feel the serotonin running through my body, my dark mood from the past couple of days clearing like clouds for the sun.

I walked to the target to remove my knife, more than ready to take a shower and get into some clean clothes.

“Will they do the job?”

I spun to face the voice and found Rafe, leaning against the mirrors on one wall of the room, staring at me like an animal appraising prey, still deciding whether to leave it alone or devour it whole.

I ignored him and threw my knife at the target, not even trying to hit anything specific, just trying to stuff down the rage boiling in my veins at the sight of his stupid perfect face.

The blade landed four inches to the left of the bullseye.

“Are you mad because I set this stuff up for you?” he asked behind me.

I refused to look at him as I stepped toward the target. “You can’t buy me off just because you don't want to apologize.”

"Is that what you think I'm doing?”

I rocked the knife back and forth and pulled it from the board. "Isn't it?”

I turned around, planning to walk back to the starting position and try again, but Rafe was already halfway to my position in front of the target.

His face was a mask of anguish, his eyes as dark as a summer thunderstorm, and I backed up instinctively, my knife still in my hand, until I felt the target against my shoulder blades.

He was on me in seconds, and when I say “on me,” I meanton me, the muscled planes of his body molded to mine, the hard press of his dick lighting a fire between my thighs.

He put his hand around my neck and stroked my throat with his thumb. “Why does it matter so much?”

I pushed the button on my knife and lifted the point of the blade to his neck. "Because it does.”

"It won't change anything." He seemed oblivious to the knifepoint digging into his throat, but his voice was thick with torment.

I held his gaze. “Maybe not. But it's what you owe me.”

His inner struggle played out in the storm of his eyes, his gaze searing into mine, and I felt the shallow rise and fall of his breath against my chest.

He swallowed hard enough that I felt the pulse of it against the tip of my knife. He inhaled deeply, like he was preparing for a long dive to the bottom of a dark sea. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

“That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“It is now,” I said, increasing the pressure of the knife against his throat.

I wasn’t an idiot. I knew he could disarm me if he wanted to. But the knife gave me the illusion of leverage, made it clear that I had some fight in me.

He shook his head and dropped his hand, then backed away from me. “You were so much better than them, Lilah.” He almost sounded tired, resigned. “Better by a mile.”

I lowered my knife. “Who? What are you talking about?”

“All of them. All those fucks at school who ignored you or made fun of you behind your back. They weren’t fit to shine your fucking shoes and you walked around like you wanted to be invisible.”

“You didn’t even know me,” I said.

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