“I know you’re not sleeping.” Something solid thumped against her shoulder. “Get up.”
Too apathetic to even be annoyed by Jay throwing things at her, she ignored him, hoping he’d take the hint and go away. Nope. A second object hit her square in the back—harder this time. “Get up.”
With a huff of indignation, she flopped over to face him, her legs tangling in the sheets.
Boxing gloves. The asshole had hurled boxing gloves at her. She picked one up and shot it back at him. Left-handed. Zero coordination. It careened off course before it bounced against the floor.
“Get up.” He stalked toward her, his face a dark mask of determination.
She hunkered down. Clenched the covers in her fists. He ripped them off, making her fingers ache. Dick. Whatever. Didn’t matter. Her body weighed a thousand pounds. No way he’d be able to?—
He scooped her off the mattress with ease.
“Hey! What the fu—” He tossed her mid-complaint. Tossed her. Like a God damn potato. At the door. Like a frigging root vegetable. With no feelings. She landed on her feet. A miracle. Her legs didn’t buckle. Another miracle. She slapped her hands onto her waist. “That. Was. Rude.”
He freed the boxing glove from the rumpled sheets and pointed it at her. “Get dressed.”
“No.”
“I’m not asking, Bec. We’re going to the gym, so get dressed.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s time for you to start fighting for yourself.”
Her anger spiked. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve been fighting my whole life, and in case you haven’t noticed”—she waved her hand toward the bed—“I’m fucking tired.”
“You’re not listening,” Jay said, scooping the second glove off the floor. “You’ve spent a lifetime fighting for everyone else. Me. Our daughter. Your parents. Every single person on the fucking planet. Now it’s time to fight for yourself. So go—get—dressed.”
“No.” Her heart clutched at the mention of the family she’d lost and the people she’d failed, and with emotions she’d rather not feel starting to bubble to the surface, she crossed her arms over her chest. An act of self-defense offering little in the way of protection. “You can’t make me.”
He threw both gloves down on the bed and grinned. At her. In a not nice way. “I think we both know, I can make you. I don’t want to—but if I have to—I will.”
“Why?” she cried. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ll love you until my last breath. But it’s not enough. I can’t fix this for you. I can’t make you want to live.”
His voice cracked on the last word, barely, but she heard it. Felt it. A tremor in the air between them. And it scared the hell out of her.
Jay never cracked.
She stood frozen, arms still crossed, every muscle clenched, heart thudding with a dread that had nothing to do with boxing gloves, or getting dressed, or fighting. This was deeper. Scarier. Raw.
“I’m not asking you to get over what Maya did to you. To us.” He stepped closer. “I’m not even asking you to be okay. All I want is for you to get up. To try. To swing at something or someone who won’t hurt you back. So let it be me. Swing at me. Hit me. Fight with me. But do it for yourself. Do it because you want to fight. You want to survive. You want to find your peace.”
Oh God! Her throat closed, her lungs refused to cooperate, and her brain threw memories she didn’t have the strength to face to the forefront of her mind. Maya, standing by the fire, laughing while Becca’s journal burned.
The vile things she’d said about their baby before accusing her of stealing Jay away and threatening to take him back. Maya’s eyes wide with shock. Her palm pressed to her stinging cheek after Becca had slapped her hard enough to break a blood vessel in her finger.
The catalyst for what would happen just a day later.
Jay’s rape. Her parents’ slaughter. Her daughter’s death.
And now?
Now?
To learn Maya had been chipped. A neural implant messing with her mind, her free will, her ability to know right from wrong. What if the empathy she’d lacked had been manufactured? Directed toward her? Her family? By strangers?
