The Berserker

Chapter 4

The next two nights we slept next to each other, or to be more precise, Peyton fell into a fitful half sleep, and I stayed awake not daring to sleep. Monday came faster than both of us expected, with Peyton taking a day off to help Nicky settle in.

My alarm rang and I shut it off sitting up. I did not have a day off, the day looming ahead of me. I felt fine, limber even, despite the lack of sleep. The shower felt better cold than hot that morning, which sent chills throughout my body. I dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve shirt foregoing a sweater altogether.

I made coffee with an extra little kick, hoping it would kick start me on the right side of the day. Hearing Peyton get up, I walked back to his room poking my head in.

"Hey, you can rest a little longer. Nicky's flight doesn't come in till ten."

"I wanted to see you off," he answered in Russian.

"I'd prefer you rest. Your sleep hasn't been restful. Even if it's lying down."

Peyton was ignoring me getting dressed, and I huffed taking his shirt from him. "LIE down, Peyton," I told him sternly making him step back.

"You made coffee," he said,"I'll go have some."

He sidestepped out of my reach striding towards the kitchen. With an angry toss, I threw his shirt on the bed following him. He was already downing it, and I just watched him. Peyton was so tense about Nicky coming, he was high-strung. I went back to my room grabbing my knuckle gloves and putting them on.

"Let's go,"  I waved one hand at him opening the basement turning the light on. The basement was our designated area for weapons, mostly locked in a storage closet, as well as fighting. There was one room specifically for me, but I haven't had to use it in a while.

Stepping onto the makeshift ring I warned Peyton,"You have ten minutes to let it out because I have to go to work."

"Alright," Peyton agreed stepping onto the mat.

I sensed the shift in him as he channeled his emotions, and took a breath to focus. I remained in a natural stance, knowing that Peyton would not be at his best. He opened his eyes, and charged an instant later. I tracked his movements following the set of his body. His right punch was a distraction. I stepped into it catching it then sliding my grip up to his shoulder. He punched with his left but I blocked with my arm and stepped in once more using my body to slam him backwards. Stumbling a bit, Peyton grit his teeth before coming at me again. I prepped one hand for blocking leaving the other loose at my side.

His movements were clear to me, and I could anticipate it with clarity. Right feint to attack with left: blocked. Low kick to shins evaded by stepping over. He turned with me using his other leg to kick at my waist. There was a split second when I could foresee potential attacks. If I blocked, my arm would be occupied and he could land a hit on me with one of his arms, most likely his left since he was using his right leg to kick. Solution: duck.

Dropping to one knee on the floor, I bent backwards, and then used my raised leg to sweep his pillar stance leaning the other way to keep balance. Once my foot connected, I followed through using the momentum to pivot myself up and one arm to lightly tap him upsetting his body balance. Peyton fell unceremoniously to the floor. Normally, that would have anyone on the floor but Peyton, since he had an incredible sense of balance and adapted to any situation. I smirked upon seeing the frustration in his eyes.

A fire ignited in his eyes, the need to win prominent. My adrenaline kicked in anticipating the fight. If Peyton was serious, that meant more of a challenge. I let him take out his anger, fears and frustration as we fought, blocking only and not retaliating unless I had to. As much as I wanted to fight back full force, I wasn't the one who needed to relax. Spying the time in my peripheral, twelve minutes had passed already while we were having fun. I had to end this, or we would keep going. I attacked first this time, throwing Peyton off guard. My goal was to sweep him off his feet, and I did so with a practiced and fluid motion that sent him flying back.