Titan barked a laugh. “Bet his fingers could kill a man, though. Death by keyboard.”
“Or boredom,” Snow quipped. “Imagine him flirting, it’d be all facts and no finesse.”
Heat pricked the back of his neck. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you love us,” Titan shot back.
He did, and maybe avoiding his team had been the wrong thing to do but being with them hurt too. Yet the restless itch in his skin wasn’t easing with being alone, so here he was. His muscles demanded an outlet, something harder than banter. He stripped off his hoodie, tossing it aside, and began wrapping his hands.
“I need to spar.”
“Dude, you have stitches holding you together,” Titan reminded him.
“Hurricane can go easy on body shots. It’ll be fine.” He needed this and a few stitches wouldn’t stop him, and Hurricane seemed to get that.
“You got it, bud.”
Hurricane climbed into the ring with him, rolling his shoulders loose, his massive frame moving with surprising lightness. Watchdog tested the ropes, their tension sharp against his palms, the rubber mat soft but springy under his boots. Sweat and disinfectant hung thick in the air.
They circled, measuring distance. Watchdog’s pulse pounded in his throat, his chest, his fingertips. The noise of the gym, the bass, Titan’s muttered jokes, Snow’s quick encouragement faded to the edges. His world shrank to Hurricane’s stance, the set of his shoulders, the timing of his breath.
The first jab came lightly, testing. Hurricane’s glove smacked against his forearm with a muffled thud, reverberating up his bones. Watchdog countered with a quick shot to the ribs, controlled, precise, but satisfying. The crack against padded flesh jolted through his knuckles, bright, electric.
Adrenaline surged, hot and dizzying. His skin tingled, every nerve awake.
“Not bad, Dog,” Hurricane grunted, grin flickering.
“Faster!” Snow’s voice rang from outside the ropes. “He’s huge but slow, use it!”
He ducked under a swing, sweat stinging his eyes, his lungs dragging hard for air. His own strike landed against Hurricane’s shoulder, the impact sharp, solid, a thrill sparking down his arm.
Hurricane pressed back, heavier now, his fists thudding into Watchdog’s guard. Each hit drove him back a step, rattling ribs, arms, core. Pain bloomed in dull, heavy waves, burning and cleansing at once. This was what he needed to feel.
He leaned into it, pushed harder. Faster. His fists blurred, each connection a rush of fire. His heartbeat thundered, his body alive, raw, pulsing with need.
Then, Hurricane’s glove clipped his ribs. Too sharp. Too close.
And the gym dissolved.
The ropes vanished. The bright lights dimmed into a single bare bulb. The sweat-slick mat turned to cold, filthy concrete. Hurricane’s calm eyes blurred, replaced by Hansen’s men, faces twisted in jeers, fists raining down, boots driving into him.
His breath fractured. Panic surged.
He lashed out, wild and desperate. Fists flying with brutal force, knuckles cracking against flesh. He heard the grunt of pain, saw blood on his hands.
“Watchdog!” Hurricane barked, pulling back, raising his arms.
But Watchdog didn’t see him. Didn’t hear him. He was back in that cell, chained, beaten, fighting to live. His roar tore through the air, animal and raw.
Words pierced the haze and his gaze flickered into focus. Safe. Home.
His vision flickered, Hansen’s men fading, replaced by Titan’s broad grin strained with effort, Sebastian’s cool concentration, Hurricane’s steady patience.
Snow’s voice anchored him. “Breathe with me. In. Out. You’re here, Watchdog. With us. We’ve got you.”
His chest heaved, air clawing into his lungs. The fight drained out of him in a sudden rush. His knees buckled, hitting the mat with a dull thud.
The wraps tore free under his shaking hands. “I can’t,” His voice cracked, hoarse, raw. “I’ll never be free. I’ll always be broken.”
