The number repeatedly throbs inside my tender head.
Twelve.
Twelve.
Twelve.
The thought of what they endured is horrific. Every night, I dream of the container we were trapped in—dark, freezing cold, filled with sobbing and raw bodily waste. The constant swaying and tipping.
Twelve.
Twelve.
Twelve.
Eyes scrunching shut, I brace a hand against the raised platform that holds the boxing ring to ride the wave of vertigo that engulfs me. My current headache has been tormenting me for days now.
Holding back memories and every last emotion entangled in them is becoming a full-time occupation. I can hardly get through a waking moment without hearing rain on the roof of that container again.
“Ember? You good?”
“Fine,” I grit out.
“You don’t exactly look it.”
There’s a thud as Axel hops down next to me, then his hand lands on my lower back.
“We’ve been at it non-stop. You should take a break.”
“No! I need to?—”
“Rest.” He grips my shoulders to hold me steady. “Jeez. You’re trembling.”
“Just tired.”
“You sure? Are you getting sick?”
“No, no. I said I’m fine.” I pull from his grasp, rolling my neck to relieve the stress. “Let’s go again.”
“Again? Hell no!” Axel watches me with tightly knitted brows. “You’re pale too.”
“Ax, stop. I want to keep training.”
“Nope. We’re done.”
“I have to be ready for Thursday!”
“Yes, by resting and recuperating. You won’t be worth shit if you’re sick or dead on your feet.”
Steeling my spine, I’m about to lay into him when I realise a quiet figure is typing on his phone near the entrance to the room. He must’ve slipped in while we were busy training.
Although he’s wearing his usual tailored suit and tie, Tom looks rumpled. His auburn locks are hastily arranged, not neat and sleek. Even his shirt collar is unbuttoned, navy tie askew.
“Aw, shit.” Axel looks over at our intruder. “Shall I get rid of him? You should go home and nap.”
“It’s alright. I can handle my brother.”
“Or I could beat his ass?”
