Chapter 135
Zane isn’t exactly the type to sit down and talk about his feelings over coffee.
Once I’m done, I carry the plate over to the sink.
“Thank you again,” I tell Martha.
She smiles faintly at me.
“You’re welcome, dear p>
I leave the kitchen and wander upstairs again. The house feels unusually quiet today… maybe it’s just in my head.
By the time I reach the bedroom, the weight of the morning is starting to settle into my bones so I i kick off my shoes and collapse back onto the bed Just for a minute, I tell myself.
The mattress is warm from earlier, and the quiet of the house wraps around me like a blanket. Before I realize it, my eyes clos and I drift off into a dreamless street.
When I wake up again, sunlight has shifted across the room.
I squint toward the window, the light is brighter now, more direct.
It’s Midday, probably.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my face and for a few seconds my brain feels slow and foggy.
Then it clicks that I have training this afternoon. Zane said the training would continue to today.
I groan quietly as a part of me considers pretending I forgot but I know that won’t, if anything, that will just make him more annoying about it.
So I drag myself out of bed again and pull on a different shirt something lighter this time.
My muscles are still sore from yesterday’s sparring, apparently anger isn’t a sustainable workout routine.
I tie my hair back quickly and head downstairs.
The training room is on the far side of the house near the garage area. The hallway leading there is empty when I reach it but before I even open the door, I hear it.
Thud.
A heavy sound… then another.
THUD.
Something hitting leather hard enough that the impact vibrates through the wall.
I pause with my hand on the door handle.
THUD.
Yeah.
That definitely sounds like someone beating the life out of a punching bag.
I push the door open and the sound hits me clearly.
THUD.
The punching bag swings violently on its chain, creaking with each impact as Zane stands in front of it, shirtless again, wrapped hands slamming into the leather with brutal force.
His back is to me so he doesn’t see when I come in.
Every punch lands like he’s trying to break something. Th muscles in his shoulders flex with each strike, sweat already glistening along his skin. His breathing is rough, controlled but heavy, like he’s been at it for a while.
THUD.
The bag swings so far it nearly hits the support beam before swinging back toward him but he doesn’t slow down. He throws a o punch then another The chain rattling loudly.
Okay.
So this isn’t normal training.
This is anger… real anger.
I lean against the doorframe and watch him for a few seconds and the difference between yesterday and today is obvious.
Yesterday he sparred with control, today he’s hitting like he wants the bag to fight back.
Finally I clear my throat.
“You know it didn’t personally insult you, right p>
The next punch lands anyway but he freezes afterward, the bag swinging between us slowly.
Then Zane turns his head slightly, just enough to see me standing there.
His chest rises and falls once then he turns fully. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his jaw says everything I need to know.
“You’re late,” he says
I check the wall clock.
“I’m three minutes late p>
“Still late p>
I shrug and push myself off the doorway, walking toward the mat.
“Sorry sir. I was sleeping p>
His eyes narrow slightly.
“Training starts when I say it starts p>
“And people sleep when they’re tired,” I reply easily.
For a second I think he might actually argue. Instead he turns back toward the punching bag.
“Warm up p>
His voice is quieter now but the anger is still there sitting just under the surface.
I step onto the mat and roll my shoulders once, trying to shake the stiffness out of them.
Zane doesn’t look at me. He’s still standing in front of the punching bag, breathing slower now but not completely calm. The bag sways slightly on its chain from the last punch he threw, creaking every time it swings forward.
For a second I just watch him, his back is tense and yeah Something’s definitely up with him today.
I push the thought aside and stretch my arms out in front of me.
“Are we starting or are you planning to murder the bag first?” I ask.
He turns then.
His expression is blank in that controlled way he has when he doesn’t feel like showing anything.
“Position p>
I sigh quietly and move to the center of the mat.
He steps across from me… Up close I can see the sweat already clinging to his skin from the punching bag. His hands are still wrapped, the white fabric already darkening where it’s soaked through.
Great.
So I’m sparring with someone who’s already warmed up and clearly in a mood.
“Try not to cry when I win,” I say lightly.
His eyebrow lifts.
“Move p>
And just like that we start.
I throw the first strike, mostly because if I let him start, I know exactly how that’s going to go.
My fist swings toward his shoulder but he blocks it without effort.
I try again, stepping forward and aiming lower toward his ribs. His arm shifts, catching my wrist before I can land the hit then he twists slightly and I stumble sideways trying to keep my balance.
“Feet,” he says.
“I know p>
“Then use them p>
“I am using them.” Apparently not well enough.
He moves before I’m ready the second time, one second he’s standing in front of me. The next he’s stepping inside my reach and tapping my shoulder hard enough to knock me off balance.
I step back, quickly catching myself.