Gabe

People kept trying to comfort him.

Gabe sat in the Riders’ gym and took the time to wrap his hands. If he didn’t wrap them, someone would notice. He’d scrape his knuckles raw or he’d injure his wrist, and Kora would start fretting at him again about PTSD. Ashwin would get agitated about the fretting, and Gabe would be forced to talk to someone.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not about his brother, not about his family, and not about what had happened to him at the Suicide Kings’ compound.

Especially not about the nightmares.

Hands wrapped, Gabe strapped on some gloves and moved to the heavy bag. Before the war, he would have shaken off his mood by dropping into the meditative beauty of his sword forms. Now, every time he tried, all he could remember was Joaquin, the grizzled old Rider who’d trained him with a blade.

Joaquin had been the first Rider to go down as they charged the City Center. Gabe had grieved for brothers before, but Joaquin had been more, like a father who actually understood him, who agreed that you should deeply feel every life you took. That violence was a necessary but ugly weapon you should never be comfortable wielding.

Joaquin would be disappointed that Gabe couldn’t let him go. He’d be even more disappointed at the rage that roiled inside Gabe, dark and unrelenting. The only outlet he had was hitting the heavy bag until his body was too tired to sustain the anger.

If he seemed calm, maybe people would stop worrying. If they stopped worrying, maybe they wouldn’t notice him falling apart.

“You alone for a reason?”

Laurel’s voice prickled over his skin in a way a voice shouldn’t have been able to do. He could feel it when she talked, like wires had gotten crossed in his brain somehow.

He swung at the bag and let the impact shiver up his arm to erase the sensation of her words. “Don’t need a partner for this.”

“Obviously.” A zipper rasped. He tried not to imagine what it belonged to. “I just wanted to make sure the gym wasn’t empty because you need some space.”

It figured she would ask. Laurel respected personal boundaries, and she wasn’t the kind of person who’d show up and try to smother you with hugs and make you talk about your pain. Based on what he knew of her upbringing in Three, she’d probably laugh at his pain. Poor, sad rich boy.

He swung again, hitting the bag a little harder. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look it.” A beat passed. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to hit me instead of that bag.”

Gabe froze. The bag swung back and slapped him in the arm. He steadied it and turned to find Laurel slipping her arms out of a hoodie. She was dressed for a workout.

Or some hand-to-hand.

“Ashwin says I’m too dependent on weapons. I need to use my fists and feet instead, because you can’t drop those.” She laid her sweatshirt across a bench. “I beg to differ about that fact, but I do acknowledge his point.”

“You want to spar?”

She rocked up on the balls of her feet, her eyes gleaming. “I want to fight.”

It was a terrible idea. Gabe could think for a long time and not come up with a worse one. Laurel’s voice did wild things to him. He wasn’t sure what her touch would do.

The dark places inside him wanted to find out.

He took a slow step away from the bag, watching her body for any signs that she was about to pounce. “What kind of fighting is Ashwin training you in?”

“Close quarters.” She grinned. “Street fighting--the dirty kind.”

It made sense. Laurel was taller than Ana, but she was leaner too. Less muscle, probably less speed. If someone got past Laurel’s guns, she’d have to be mean. No fancy maneuvers or showing off, just quick and nasty.

Quick and nasty suited his mood just fine.

He moved to the center of the mat, still watching her. “So come at me.”

She rushed him, straight on, then feinted left at the last moment for a leg sweep. It would have worked on a lot of people.

It wouldn’t work on a Rider.

In seconds, he had her on the mat, on her back, pinned with an arm across her shoulders. He only had a moment to process the feel of her beneath him before she surged up, reversing their positions.

She was better on the floor. Vicious. Getting her down had been easy, but getting her pinned was a nightmare. Every time Gabe thought he had her, she wriggled away. She flipped their positions with surprising strength. She dug fingers and elbows and once even her chin into impossibly sensitive spots, like she’d mapped out every vulnerability on the human body and could nail someone right on the rawest nerve with her eyes closed.

After a particularly painful jab in the ribs, he tried to roll away. Laurel followed him, grabbing a fistful of his hair to haul him back. When her knee collided with his side, he grunted and twisted desperately, using his superior strength to flip her onto her back again.

This time, he didn’t take chances. He restrained her with his body and slammed her hands down to the mat.

He also kept his face out of the range of her teeth. Just in case.

She stared up at him, her chest heaving but her hands lax beneath his. “Does not thinking help?”

He couldn’t understand her question. He couldn’t understand thinking. Her thin shirt clung to her breasts, and her quick breaths did fascinating things, and maybe she’d crossed all his wires, because he could taste how good her skin looked.

He was losing his damn mind.

He shoved away from her and rolled to his back, staring up at the ceiling as his body roiled with conflicting instincts. “If he just started training you, you don’t need much help. You’re gonna be really good at this.”

“That’s Sector Three for you.” She sat up and wrapped her arms around her legs. “But thanks. That means a lot.”

That chilled the lust in his body. Gabe might be in here hiding from the raw truths about his family, but he couldn’t imagine growing up in the sort of place that taught you to fight like your life depended on it. Worse was knowing Laurel’s life undoubtedly had depended on it. Daily.

Poor, sad rich boy.

“It’s just the truth,” he said, covering his discomfort. “We can go again if you want.”

“No, that’s all right.” She turned her head to meet his gaze. “I heard about Javier. That’s real rough, Gabe. I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t laughing at him. There was sympathy in her gorgeous brown eyes, but somehow it didn’t make him feel trapped. “Yeah. It’s... It’s rough.”

“What are you gonna do?”

What he had to do. What it was his duty to do. He’d sworn oaths to Gideon and the Rios family, and nothing would make him forsake them. But being born to one of the noble estates came with a different set of obligations. Hundreds of families depended on the stability of the Montero businesses for their livelihoods.

If something had gone so wrong that Javier had resorted to drinking himself to death, the ripples wouldn’t stop with his brother. Thousands of lives could be ruined, and the chaos that would follow had the potential to consume the sector.

What were a few nightmares compared to that?

“I’m going to do my job,” he said quietly. “I’m going to find out what’s going on in my family, and I’m going to fix it.”