The sun has just begun pushing through the trees when we step into the clearing above the safe house. Thin bands of light cut across the damp ground and catch on the dew clinging to the grass and branches. Pine needles stick to the bottoms of our boots as we stop near the bunker entrance.
Brooke rolls her shoulder once and glances at me.
“How did you know the pool thing would help?” she asks.
I look over at her. “Pool sex?”
She lifts a brow. “You know what I mean.”
A laugh slips out of me. “I learned a lot of stuff in those psych classes.”
Her mouth twists. “You really paid to take classes at Stratford just to watch me.”
“Hell yeah.”
She shakes her head, still looking a little stunned by it. Brooke never fully understood how far my obsession goes.
When we first started dating and she told me she was in therapy, I spent nights researching every technique those therapists use and every way I could reinforce it outside those sessions. I paid attention to details she assumed no one would notice. I learned which nights her nightmares hit the hardest and which music helped calm her afterward. I memorized the exact way she liked the apartment arranged so nothing will feel out of place when she came home.
I even learned what snacks Luna loves so she wouldn’t make noise when I slipped into the apartment at night and watched Brooke sleep.
And when the manor broke her, when the miscarriage hollowed something out of both of us, I went back to that same instinct. I spent nights digging through anything I could find about trauma recovery, physical retraining, exposure therapy, anything that might pull her out of the hell theyforced her into. I needed something practical to give her besides sympathy and empty reassurances.
Brooke stands in front of me now in the clearing, watching me like she is still trying to figure out what I have planned.
“Southpaw day,” I say, tossing the mouthguard to her.
She catches it with her left hand and pushes it into her mouth without looking away from me.
My jaw tightens before I even realize it.
She has no idea how hard it is to stay focused.
Every time she shifts her weight, I see her naked. Every breath she takes reminds me of last night, her legs wrapped around me, her nails in my back, her cunt squeezing around my cock while she bites my shoulder to keep from screaming. Her thighs shaking when she comes. The way she says my name when I slide back inside her after the second round.
I have not gotten over it.
But this morning is not about sex. It is about control.
She throws the first punch.
Left jab. Fast. It clips my jaw. I let it land. Not because she surprises me, but because I need to see what she will do after.
She follows through.
Left leg comes up into a kick. Wide and off-balance. But she puts weight behind it. She is still figuring out how to move with her left, but she is learning fast. Too fast for most people. Exactly fast enough for me.
I catch her ankle and twist.
She hits the ground hard. Air leaves her lungs in a grunt, her back slamming into the dirt.
She gasps, but doesn't cry out.
I drop down before she can roll. Straddle her hips. Pin her thighs under my knees. Grab her wrists and slam them into the earth on either side of her head.
Her chest jerks up. Her tank top sticks to her skin. Her mouth is open. Her lips are already red and parted.
She looks good like this.
