“You’ve been cooped up for too long.” Max gestures to the mats in the far back corner. They’re usually on the left side of the floor. The jerk moved them. “Go stretch.”
I stare, frowning. Then I lift my hands and jingle the handcuffs. He pulls a key from his right pocket.
I’ll remember that.
His eyes stay locked on mine as he unfastens the restraints. “Behave.”
I nearly hiss as the frigid air hits irritated skin. With the pressure finally off my wrists, the relief flows through me as quickly as the blood returning to my fingers. I shake out my hands, not aware of how close to numb they were.
“Only if you do.”
Max strides over to the punching bag hanging just to the right of the stairs and shoos me to the back corner like one might a child.
He’s not dropping his guard, no matter how obedient I act.
I appreciate that he respects my skills, but after days on end of this, I’m tired of his infuriating eyes on me.
I walk to the mats and start reaching for my toes. My hamstrings burn in protest and my shoulders droop toward the ground as I force them to relax. They’ve been tight for days.
Everything’s been tight.
Even in sleep, my muscles stay locked with tension.
Moving feels so good. Rolling my hands back and forth and stretching my arms behind my back. Kicking my feet back, I drop into an upward dog, arching my neck.
My upper chest is tight in ways I thought I’d dealt with years ago, but a few more iterations should fix that. Strength and flexibility don’t deteriorate in such a short period of time.
Lunging forward, I raise my butt to the ceiling while keeping my hands in place and watch Max from between my ankles.
He’s working the heavy bag, causing it to swing and sway. Which is…impressive. Beyond impressive, actually.
If he’d ever hit me with one of those punches…
Well, I’m glad I’m good at dodging.
He builds a rhythm. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Next, he reverses the order, then gives a flurry of different strikes. There’s no rhyme or reason to Mad Max. He circles the bag, hitting the reinforced leather like it cursed out his mother.
Except he killed his mother. He told me so. I doubt he’d bat an eye at someone insulting her.
His speed blurs his movements. With each hit, the bag strains at the seams. The pounding of his fists echoes like a heartbeat.
And he just keeps going.
I’m nearly through with my warm-ups when sweat finally starts to darken his t-shirt, across his shoulders first, then down his spine. His hair falls over his forehead with each blow, dark strands sticking to his skin.
Now he’s just showing off. Putting on a show to intimidate me.
I want to scoff, but I can’t glimpse away. I expected him to fight like an animal, but instead, he…dances, every punch he throws perfectly executed. No wasted energy. Just pure, focused aggression channeled through technique drilled into muscle memory over years.
He’s incredible.
Shame chases the heels of that thought.
I hate that my body responds to his fighting like he’s performing some kind of primal mating ritual. I’ve never felt this before, so why now? Why him?
He stops, his chest heaving as he catches his breath and walks to a water bottle on the steps. He’s favoring his right leg a little.
If I hadn’t seen his ankle before or searched for a weakness, I’d have missed it.
