Double Agent

○ fifteen ○

| Ezra |

I keep my gaze on the punching bag in front of me, keeping my form right, my hips in the perfect angle, my hands going at it with the same amount of power and speed.

I refuse to let my gaze waver anywhere else, even if I knew the brown haired spitfire I'd somehow acquired was standing at the bag behind me, doing the exact same thing.

Training is important. It keeps me alive and ensures the most amount of familiarity and routine I can keep in this line of work. These trainings make me downright unbeatable, and I fucking refuse to be distracted by anyone.

Even if 'anyone' happened to be Isadora going at the bag behind me with a concentration I've had yet to see. She's been at it for an hour and a half, and that's way too fucking long in my books. Her steps have slowed, and her tape is peeling. She refuses to look at anything else but the bag and the vacant look she's giving it is unnerving.

Something hollow and uncomfortable settles in my chest. We've comfortably established a routine of not giving a fuck about each other, arguing about things that waste my time, and me ignoring her ridiculous rambling.

I saw the look in her eye that day when she shot the last man, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the man was someone close to her. This job is not easy, but it cannot warrant any weaknesses. Which is why I keep everyone at least two fucking metres away from me mentally. Anyone could be a weakness.

The steady sounds of the bag behind me bubble to the foreground once again.

Fucking Christ. What was her issue?

I stop punching and turn around, watching her back as she goes at the bag. She's facing away from me, and because I'm the son of Satan, I let my gaze drop down the length of her back, past a tiny little t-shirt to the sliver of skin peeking through between the shirt and shorts.

I make a mental note to have a chat with whoever made those shorts as I trail my gaze down the curve of her ass to her honey coloured thighs and down to her shoes.

You'd think the universe would be a little more merciful and have me kidnap someone else a little less tempting and a lot less infuriating.

I try to go back to the routine, but for the life of me I can't because I can hear her heavy breathing and I can see her dropped elbows and I know she's going to collapse from exhaustion soon.

Then, for no fucking reason at all, I find myself walking over to her.

I face her, ducking to the side to avoid the punching bag being flung at me. Either she doesn't see me or she's completely ignoring me, neither of which I care to deal with.

"Hey," I keep my voice firm.

She's definitely ignoring me, in fact, my voice seems to bring about a new kind of rage in her, and her fists lunge out faster.

I put my hand on the back of the punching bag, forcing the recoil of her punches to stop in an annoying manner. I see her visibly grit her teeth, and she pauses mid-stance to glare at me.

"What," she sighs at me, resigned.

"You're done for today," I step beside the bag.

She laughs, "Yeah, okay," and resumes punching at the now unsupported bag.

"I'm not joking." I raise my voice in warning.

She ignores me, and the punching continues.

I step in front of her, and she groans in frustration.

"Get out of my way."

"No."

She shrugs, walking to another bag.