Page 75 of Cruel Debts
"You're mine now, Pretty Bird."
"Asherrrrrr, yes, oh yes."
Orgasms. Whining. Growls. Grunts. Bodies slapping together.
"What the hell is going on up there?" I snarled at Hawke, my hand clenching the phone so hard in my fist I was surprised it didn't snap in half yet.
"Fucking, obviously," He said dryly, the eye roll practically audible through the phone though it made no sound. "What does it sound like?"
It sounded like someone was going to die when I got back. It sounded a lot like Asher had fucked up and stuck his dick in a girl whose world isn't fit for the likes of us. It sounded like betrayal, because he was supposed to be the strongest of us.
"Trouble," I said instead, hating the pain and resentment in my tone. "Why did you call me to tell me that Asher was getting his dick wet?"
Silence.
"Hawke."
Silence.
"Hawke, I'm hanging up?—"
"I thought you'd want to know," he said quietly, his tone guarded. "I thought it?—"
"Do me a favor, Hawke, and don't fucking think anymore, okay?" I didn't usually get snippy with him when he didn't deserve it, but I didn't have it in me now to be kind or patient. He'd done it to rile me up, knowing damn well I felt the same way Asher did about Trinity McCoy. The only difference was that I had self-control, and apparently, Asher did not. "And don't call me to let me listen to that bullshit. If Asher wants to be stupid and put the mission in jeopardy, well, he's a big boy. If things go south, he's got only himself to blame."
I hung up the phone and promptly threw it against the wall, taking satisfaction from the way it shattered into a bunch of twisted chunks of metal and safety glass.
If they had a problem with me not having a phone, then they could just complain about it amongst themselves.
My attention pivoted back to the punching bag, and with a growl, I clenched my teeth and slammed my fists into the leather and sand, working up a sweat.
The bag didn't stand a chance.
How could he just go and—without talking to us—he just?
"You look like you could use a partner, Sentry."
From the door of the gym room, St. Clair's voice carried, the ire and sarcasm dripping from every word. I didn't pay her more than a curt nod as she moved into the room, closing the door behind her.
Her eyes tracked my fists as they pounded sand, observing the moves I made with the gaze of a practiced fighter. Someone who'd had to swing her own fists a time or two in defense, or not.
I saw the lip twitch out of the corner of my eye. "Your swing is unbalanced. If you put more weight on the back foot when you swing, you could put more power into it."
"Can't. Old injury." There wasn't, but I wasn't about to tell her that. I'd be damned if I took advice from her about my form. I didn't fight hand-to-hand. It wasn't my style. I preferred long-distance, so I never had to breathe the same air as a target. Never had to listen to them whine and beg for their lives. Never had to see the realization in their gaze that they'd fucked up.
I didn't want to see the weakness in another human, because it hit too close to home.
"Right," she muttered, stepping behind the punching bag to hold it steady. "What brings you down here tonight?"
I stopped swinging, stared at her like she'd gone daft. "I'malwaysdown here."
She had cameras and eyes. If she doubted the validity of that, she could verify the truth easily, instead of interrogating me like this.
"You are, yes," she agreed, flinching just a tad when the meat of my fist caught the center of the bag on a particularly irate swing and sent her a step back. "But not usually to beat the hell out of my punching bag alone." Her head tilted to the side. Something in those eyes told me she knew far too much about everything. "This is usually my time to exercise. I've never seen you down here at this hour."
"Things change," I swore, slinging another punch at the bag. "People change."
Boy, did they ever.
