Today, it would be the place where I wore myself out, exorcising all thoughts of my dream stalker.
I dropped off my backpack by the door and headed straight for the treadmill to warm up with a five-mile run. When that didn’t work, I lit into the punching bag, wishing it were the face of Mr. Tall, Hot, and Terrifying—the man, not the dragon, since I wasn’t suicidal.
Boxing was a form of meditation, and before long, it cleared my mind and settled me into a zone where nothing mattered but my breaths and the bag. Jab-hook-cross. Exhale. Inhale.
Smack, smack, smack. Exhale. Inhale.
Fresh dark blotches speckled the faded gray vinyl, adding to the collection of dried blood. Pain registered across my knuckles, and I flexed my hands. They itched as flesh tugged and knitted itself back together, healing almost instantly.
Once, when I was a younger and more foolish wolf, I’d asked Rust why we didn’t use boxing gloves to train. The next day, he showed up with a pair, tossed them to me, and thrashed me soundly in the seconds it took to don them.
“We don’t train for a boxin’ ring; we train for survival,”he’d said. “Pain can be an asset or a distraction. Learn to embrace it, and it can never be used against you.”
I wondered what Rust would say about my dreams.
I considered telling him, but what would I say? That the enemy I should have killed showed up and tormented me every time I closed my eyes? Yeah right.
Exhaustion wrapped around the ball of anxiety in my chest as I assaulted the bag until my arms turned to rubber and sweat stung my eyes. Pausing to mop my face with the bottom of my tank top, I rolled my shoulders and struck out again.
Uppercut, cross, jab.
Smack, smack, sma?—
“Damn. What’d that bag ever do to you?” a familiar voice asked, interrupting me mid-jab.
The familiar woodsy scent of the newcomer reached my nose, and I whirled around and froze. The forgotten bag slammed into me, nearly knocking me off my feet, but I didn’t care because Mackiel Denael stood in the doorway.
Relief washed over me, threatening to take my legs out from under me.
Mack was home.
His lips curled up into a smirk, revealing the dimple in his right cheek as he dropped his rucksack and flung his arms wide. “What? Aren’t you happy to see me?”
I abandoned the bag and vaulted across the small space, throwing myself at him. He braced and caught me mid-leap, flinging his arms around me and burying his nose in the crook of my neck.
Mack was the only wolf who wasn’t put off by my scent, which was good since I slept in his bed. His lips found mine, and the days we’d spent apart melted away as our tongues tangled. I could feel how much he missed me pressed against my belly, but I pulled back to look him over.
“Is everything okay?”
His brow furrowed.
“I thought you weren’t due home ‘till next week.”
“The alpha called me back early.” His gaze dipped down to what I was wearing, and he said, “You’re working out in my shirt?”
I crossed my arms over it, pushing out my boobs and hoping Icould make him forget what he’d seen. “I was sleeping in it, actually, and I couldn’t sleep.”
His big brown eyes latched onto mine. “You okay?”
I shook my head, absolutely not okay, but also unsure of where to start. There were so many things I had to tell him, but I blurted out the mistake that was haunting me the most. “I didn’t know he was a dragon when I left him alive.”
Mack wrapped an arm around me and pulled me close. He kissed me on the top of the head before hooking a finger beneath my chin to raise my gaze to meet his. He was so damn pretty it made my chest ache. Long, dark eyelashes framed eyes that could talk me into pretty much anything. Heavy stubble covered his jaw and upper lip, giving him a rugged, unrefined vibe only enhanced by his silky chestnut curls bound in a low ponytail.
“I don’t know much about dragons, but I do know that this pack can take one,” he said.
Mack was so much more than a giant murder lizard. I couldn’t believe I’d even considered that creep attractive when I had this. Mack always knew what to do and say.
He squeezed me to him. “Let’s go home.”
