AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I swallowed, unsure how to respond. She was a woman who reminded me of an angel with her features, but she moved like the devil. She was fascinating. And I wanted to know more. “No,” I said softly. I understood her probably more than I wanted to. It’s why I punched the brick walls until my knuckles bled. “I get it.”
Her smile was chilling in its authenticity. “I’m glad you understand.”
And just like that, she left me alone in the gym.
Chapter Eight
CHRISTINE
I slammed my fist into the punching bag without a glove, reveling in the feel of my knuckles burning from the impact. Sweat dripped down my cheek and onto my lip. I licked it away, salty aggression blooming on my tongue. The taste of frustration was suffocating me.
The DuPont men let me out of my prison cell and allowed me to train. However, I wasn’t given any knives or guns. I supposed they had been made aware of just how lethal I was.
I preferred it that way.
I’d been working out with only my fists since the sun came up, in an attempt to exhaust my body and my mind.
When I was training, I didn’t think about August or Leo. I didn’t think about Lord Nathan and the bombs. Isabelle’s body.
I thought about nothing. I let my body do the thinking for me. I let my mind freeze over into a stagnant nothingness of biting pain. The moment I started thinking, was the moment I started feeling, and I didn’t want to feel anything for a little while.
Not with Atticus pushing me away.
Not with August thinking I was dead.
Not with Leo betraying me.
I pulled my arm back and slammed it forward, the bag swinging back and forth with the force. I took deep breaths, the air burning my lungs, heightening my senses and tingling my skin. I only stopped when I heard a voice behind me.
“Nice hit,” a weathered tone ricocheted around the room. I spun around and stared in shock at the old man responsible for making me a killing machine. Hudson wore a black jogging suit, his face drawn and tired, like he’d been out running for days. His eyes were filled with the knowledge of war and life, but they had a dullness to them that made it feel as if he hadn’t slept in a decade.
He was tall and imposing, always towering over me. Skinny, but his muscles rippled with each inhale. He kept his hair short and clean cut. His right cheek bore the scar I’d put there two years ago.
“I should have known you’d show up, considering Atticus is your boss and everything,” I said, my words dripping with resentment.
He strolled over to me without a care in the world. I massaged my knuckles as he leaned over the punching bag, almost touching it with his nose. I watched as he deeply inhaled. Hudson always loved the smell of sweat. It made me uncomfortable when we first met, but I’d gotten used to it.
“Are you angry?” The old man’s voice was gruff and filled with gravel, a slight rasping sound every time he spoke. He liked it when I was angry. Loved how it fueled my fighting spirit and made me work harder to draw blood.
“No,” I replied, happy to disappoint him. I liked Hudson—before I knew he was sent to train me by Atticus—but I wasn’t in the mood for his mind games today. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you think?” he retorted, straightening his spine and putting his hands on his hips. I was almost sorry I asked.
“I think you’re here to remind me I’m a weapon, just like you did three years ago.” I shrugged, then flexed my biceps, the sleeves of my hoodie hugging my arms. I kept my eyes trained on him, noticing how the lights reflected off the light stubble on his chin, dancing across the wrinkles in his forehead.
“No. I’m here to remind you that you can use this anger. That you should use this anger.” He was calm and casual, but something in his voice made me think he was trying to trick me. His lips twisted into a snarl as he pointed at the punching bag. “Why waste time hitting this when you could do something much more satisfying?”
Something about Hudson always put me on edge. I knew I was skilled. My trauma forced me to overcome, and I had a penchant for causing death. However, Hudson was skilled at getting inside of my head. He knew my weaknesses and made me want to tear my body apart. His methods were cruel and demanding. Sure, I was the best at what I did, but with Hudson, I resembled a child with a gun in her hand and no sense of restraint. He made me mindless and dangerous. I was thankful for the man, and before I realized he was hired by Atticus, I cared for him.
Now I just viewed him as another tool used to control me.
“I don’t trust you. You’ve been bought and paid for by the DuPonts. You’re their bitch,” I said bitterly.
He laughed, a cackling sound that doubled as a chuckle. “Oh, that isn’t entirely true. I’m here to help. But I guess you’re right, though. You shouldn’t trust me.”
He always wanted to help. Or at least his version of it.
“You want to fight, Hudson?” I asked while rolling my neck. I was exhausted and feeling cagey.
