Throwing my entire weight behind it, I punch the bag as hard as I can. Sweat drips down into my eyes and stings as I dance around, then land a roundhouse kick. The impact sings up my thigh, connecting with my core. It hurts, but it’s a beautiful pain.

It means I’m strong.

I love working on the bag. I’m not the best kickboxer in the gym, far from it, but I know I can protect myself out on the street if need be, no matter how small I am. In actuality, I rarely think about my size. My trainer Tristan always tells me that when it comes to strength, to fitness, size has nothing to do with it. Years of training have made me quick, lean and a little bit mean.

Strong is the new skinny, and all that.

Kickboxing is part of my therapy, though over the years I’ve rounded it out with some spin and strength training too. A few years ago it was strongly suggested, mostly by my dad, that I needed some therapy to deal with my issues. I protested, but he won. And the resultant sessions with my shiny new therapist, Dr. Gill, had had her suggesting that I needed an aggressive outlet for all of my suppressed rage.

Anger I’ve been storing since the night Seth Thorne got arrested after beating the ever loving shit out of my brother Theo.

Theo had been so badly beaten, he’d almost died. Cold dread had filled me when I’d looked at my brother, lying in intensive care in the hospital. He’d been barely recognizable, and realizing how close I’d been to Seth, and the things I’d wanted him to do to me?

I’d been filled with a loathing previously unknown in my innocent little world. I will never forget how I felt that night. It was beyond anger, beyond betrayal.

Seth had refused my flirtatious advances, but he’d killed my innocence all the same. And I’ve never fully recovered.

Neither had our family. It’s hard for a marriage to survive one son trying to kill another, especially with each parent on opposite sides. Sam and Dinah separated, then divorced. Theo recovered, but began his own descent into hell.

There was little attention left for me, so I acted out in the only way I could think of, blurring the memories and pain with alcohol, and getting the warmth I missed from home with boys… with so many boys.

Plummeting doesn’t even describe the drop in my grades. I went from a 4.0 GPA to less than a 1.0 which, if you don’t know, pretty much means you’re actively avoiding school. And I was, getting high in the parking lot before blowing Theo’s old football teammates. Sometimes one at a time, but one memorable lunch hour I took on three.

I’d thought that more hands, more mouths might help fill the emptiness inside of me. Instead they just ripped me open, leaving a gaping chasm instead of a hole in their wake.

Even now, six years later, the guilt creeps up with the memories.

Cut it out, Flynn. I’d heard it enough from Dr. Gill over the years—don’t judge yourself by your past. You don’t live there anymore. Grunting out loud, something that’s encouraged here at the gym, I channel that guilt into my body as I hit the bag again and again, spinning and landing a backhand.

Every muscle in my body cries for me to stop, but I keep going. I’ll be limping tomorrow, but today I need the burn. I don’t know why, but today those emotions and memories are haunting me, dogging my every step, my every damn breath.

I hate that even now Seth can make me feel.

The therapy helps. There’s no doubt. I’ve stopped actively looking for ways to destroy myself.

But I still have intense, sweaty dreams about him. Dreams that make me feel raw and hollowed out. I told Dr. Gill about them, and it had helped to hear her thoughts—that maybe it wasn’t actually Seth in my dream. He was just the face for everything I felt and still struggled to work through. I blamed him for so much, so he was my dreaming embodiment of those feelings.

It helped to think that I wasn’t actually still lusting after him, not after all he’d done to my family. It had eased the sense of betrayal I’d always had upon wakening.

But Dr. Gill hadn’t left it there. She’d looked for ways for me to work through the emotions causing the dreams… and she’d made a suggestion that literally had me on the floor. I still can’t get it out of my mind. It is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s insanity. It’s not even an option.

Except that it’s locked itself in my mind and won’t let go. And so it’s the reason I am in the gym pounding away on an invisible opponent.

Letting loose with a guttural yell, I do a front kick on the bag, send it swinging, and nearly end up on my ass.

“Whoa there, Killer. What’d the bag ever do to you?” Thick, scarred hands clasp my shoulders before I can fall, righting me before letting go. I turn to find Tristan, my trainer, and the owner of the gym, grinning at me with that rakish look he always has.

Mmm. He’s sweaty, his blond hair up in wet spikes from running a hand through it, and his ridiculously large arms flex when he moves. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t ogle him every time I was at the gym, but I do my best to keep that last layer of resistance.

A darling of the MMA world, he uses his place to train himself and also to mentor up-and-comers in the sport. But we have a shared history, so he lets me in.

And that shared history is Seth. Yeah, so not going there. No matter that his biceps are the size of my head.

“I’m fine,” I scowl, turning to size up the bag again. I don’t like defeat. I want to make this punching bag my bitch.

“Are you sure?” Yeah, hot and sensitive. Perfect combo. Too bad there’s never been more than a flicker of interest between us. “I was watching you; looks like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Baring my teeth, I wind up and punch the bag again for good measure. “Maybe.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He cocks his head, looking utterly adorable. Damn it. Why can’t I be interested in him? He’d probably provide me with a nice, stable relationship.

He waits for an answer, and I pinch my lips shut. Hell no, I don’t want to talk about it. What am I going to say? Yeah, my therapist had a really fucked-up idea to make me stop having crazy sex dreams about your old drinking buddy Seth?

“I’m good.” I finally give him a small smile, hoping it’s enough to get him to back off. You know, cause I’m the crazy chick who wants the hot man to go away.

Tristan arches an eyebrow, but nods, stepping back. “All right, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

I watch that nice tight ass walk away, thoroughly irritated with my lack of interest. Once he’s gone, I turn back to the bag, but I’m done. My muscles feel like overcooked spaghetti and mentally I’m spent. It’s worked. I’ve left my worries on the floor.

Grabbing my towel, I head to the showers. The women’s locker room is really no more than a closet, since I’m one of maybe four other women who use the gym. At least there is a shower stall, albeit a tiny one. I scrub my cotton candy scented shampoo through my hair, rinsing as I go, then towel off and slide back into my street clothes, worn jeans and a tank top. I still have an afternoon shift to work at the restaurant, five mindless hours during which I have time to decide whether I’m going to go through with the suggestion my therapist gave me. A suggestion I still can’t wrap my mind around.

I can’t lie. The idea is… intriguing. There’s no other reason it would take root in my mind like it has. It also scares the ever loving hell out of me.

I rub at my wrists remembering Seth’s hands around them, that fateful night. Try as I might, I can’t erase that touch, or the way he made me feel. Years of therapy still haven’t exorcised him, my own personal demon.

And I know that’s why Dr. Gill has suggested what she has. So that I can explore that part of me. The part that yearns for those bonds, that needs them in some way… needs the freedom that might be found from losing control.

Oh, to hell with waiting. I already know what I want. There’s no point in lying to myself. I spent enough time doing that shit.

Even knowing what I want, my fingers tremble a bit as I pull out my phone. Scrolling through my contacts, I find Solace, the venue that Dr. Gill researched and recommended.

I’m still trembling as I book an appointment, but I’m aware enough of myself to note than some of it is anticipation.

I’ve made my decision… there’s no turning back now.