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Mark leaned on the kitchen island and pinned her with a sharp gaze. “Beat yourself up all you want, Jenna, but you can’t be held responsible for what you were forced to do under duress.”
She wasn’t sure that was true. Things had happened, but she wasn’t tortured. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. It wasn’t lost on her that she was smart—a genius by most of the world’s standards—and yet she still hadn’t been able to figure out a way to fix the formula she’d developed or keep it from getting into the wrong hands.
And now, people were dead.
Her fingers gripped the mug way too tightly. She could feel tension spreading through her body. Adding coffee to her already spiraling system probably wasn’t a good idea.
She looked up to find Mark staring at her hands.
“How about instead of drinking that, you and I go into the gym and spar?”
She hadn’t sparred with anyone in over a year. She’d spent the first six months after her captivity learning everything she could about self-defense—sometimes spending six or eight hours a day in the gym where she lived in Denver.
Nothing had been more important to her than to feel safe.
Then, in one of the times she’d forced herself to go out of the house, some poor guy had made the mistake of coming up behind her and grabbing her shoulder as she was leaving the bar.
Her instincts—the good and the bad—had taken over. She’d broken his cheekbone, given him a concussion, and laid him out on the floor in seconds flat. He’d had to be taken to the hospital.
It had been Ian DeRose’s high-end lawyers that had talked the guy out of pressing charges, explaining what Jenna had been through. Later, she’d found out Ian had also paid off all the guy’s college loans.
How many times had she been over that scenario with her therapists?
The guy shouldn’t have grabbed her like that.
She’d already been highly stressed because she was about to go back outside.
It was in the relatively early days after her release, and she didn’t have as much control or focus as she did now. Her instincts had been to protect herself, an understandable impulse.
But Jenna knew the truth: her response had been nuclear.
And everyone staring at her that night like she was a monster—standing over a bleeding man she’d hurt for no reason—had confirmed it.
Yet another reason why she didn’t leave the house much. She couldn’t trust herself.
In the months since, she hadn’t stopped her martial arts training. She’d needed it to remain sane. It was the only outlet her body had to get rid of the stress that sometimes felt like it was choking her.
If anything, she’d only gotten better. More deadly.
“Maybe sparring isn’t a good idea.” She put her coffee cup down. Caffeine probably wasn’t a good idea either.
His eyes narrowed. “You afraid you’ll lose?”
“The opposite, actually.”
“I’m former Special Forces. I’ve gotten my ass handed to me by people a lot bigger and stronger than you. I know how to handle myself, and I think we both could use the physical activity.”
He was right. He was more than capable of handling himself. She’d watched him on the Zodiac mission feeds more than once. He was every bit as good as her. Better.
“I can handle you, librarian.” He crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Let’s do this.”
“All right, Outlaw. I’ll meet you there in five minutes. Let me change.”
He nodded and headed toward his own room. She needed to prove to herself she could do this. Mark didn’t need to know about the nuclear response incident. She didn’t want him holding back or going easy on her because he was afraid of setting her off. That would defeat the purpose.
She slipped into her room and shut the door behind her. Her room was the one place she allowed her true tastes to rule. It had security to the gills, but it also featured softer colors and fabrics. An overstuffed armchair and an incredibly comfortable bed. The room was her sanctuary, and she’d gone to great lengths to make sure it was a sanctuary in every sense of the word.
Quickly, she changed into clothes to spar and put her hair up out of the way. Anxiety was still bubbling in her stomach, but she could do this. She needed to do this. Fighting didn’t have to mean hurting anyone. She’d practiced enough on the BOBs, and she was confident she could defend herself. As long as nothing caused her to panic, she’d be fine.
