On the Line [Run Cold Book Two]

14: Breaking Point

Had I ever woken up with a minor headache? Sure. That was nothing water and ibuprofen couldn't cure. But the morning after my night with Braaten had my head feeling worse than it had when Kasper hit me with the rifle butt.

When Braaten cracked eggs in a frying pan at 5 AM, the mere smell had me rushing for the bathroom. My head hurt, my eyes hurt, my stomach ached- he left for work and abandoned me to an awful morning on his bathroom floor. I don't think I left his apartment until after nine,  which made me feel twice as awkward as I awaited Einar, standing in the lobby in yesterday's clothes beside men and women in suit coats and blazers and modest dresses.

Dad was a quick visit; he'd been approved for discharge and wanted to spend the day with Mom before having dinner with me back at the palace. I stayed with him at her bedside until noon, when my stomach mellowed and knew I had to get back to the palace. Sometime during my wretched morning Braaten had banged on the bathroom door and asked if I'd be willing to make a statement about the situation later in the day. Said it'd be good for the public to hear from me after my absence, and I mostly agreed. 

I couldn't do anything for Mom in the hospital besides brush the hair from her face and try not to think about how still and odd her body lay. Neither could Dad, but he was content filling in a crossword book from the hospital giftshop. He insisted he was alright, urging me to leave, promising to check in before dinner. He'd even wear a suit, since according to Einar, diplomats would be there.

With his glasses hiding the concern in his eyes, he focused on clues and let them occupy his mind.

I needed something physical. I needed release. I needed to punch something.

The palace gym was a brightly-lit  start. As soon as my shoulder had been approved for physical activity, I'd made it my mission to better defend myself. Joronn and Kasper had kicked me while I was down, and I wasn't going to be weak like that ever again.

At one in the afternoon there was little activity on the rubberized floor, and once its paltry guests had seen me stomping through with my hair in a high pony and athletic tape around my knuckles, they made a quick exit.

Einar may have had a hand in that, though I was too busy debating the weights or treadmill to notice much beyond their exit. My bodyguard saluted me and stepped outside the hall. He wasn't needed this afternoon, now that I'd arrived safe and relatively sound from Braaten's apartment.

That made me feel better about boxing, kicking, and otherwise loudly exhausting myself.

One of the hanging bags, grey and anonymous like the man who'd shot Mom, became the target of my fury. I screamed. Screamed and punched and punched until all the muscles in my arm shook and I collapsed in a panting, undignified heap.

And then someone cleared their throat. I glanced into the mirrored walls.

Marcus lifted and re-placed a weight on a rack across the room, likely to get my attention when his voice hadn't made me turn. Our eyes met in the glass and I jumped up. My frustrations returned immediately. I punched the bag hard, hopping and shaking my hand until the sting disappeared and I could hit it again.

"Einar told me you were here," he said, poking around the equipment intently. He had on  appropriate gym clothes, black shorts and a sweatshirt presumably hiding a tee, which killed my solitary vibe. When I turned back to the bag, I stuffed the curses back in my throat and tried not to sound too much like an animal.

A minute later he came over with a pair of boxing mitts strapped to his hands, settled himself into a balanced stance, and nodded at me to have at 'em. "How was your night?"