Twenty-nine
Blake
I’m lost in a blur of blood and rage. Fuzzy. Incoherent. Fueled by instinct over thought. My arms swing, one after the other, muscles burning. I’m high on the buzz. Light-headed from the release. Over and over, my hits land hard.
Pulled from behind, I thrust back an elbow to relieve the tension. Contact.
Wet coats my fists. My target isn’t moving. But that doesn’t stop me from delivering blow after punishing blow. I’m pulled back again. Voices filter through the fog. They’re yelling.
More, I need more. My arms crank harder. The object of my beating offers no resistance. I roar, an animal begging for a fight.
The voices yell louder. Stop, Stop!
I can’t. Revenge. Protection. Duty. These are what push me to punish.
A wall hits me from the side. I’m weightless a second before pain explodes in my shoulder. I struggle to get back to my feet. Crawling against the weight that holds me down. I thrash and kick, embracing the violence that hums in my veins.
Voices call my name, shouting. One familiar and feminine. She needs me.
Throwing off the resistance that keeps me grounded, I scramble to my feet. Visions assault my brain. Tear-streaked faces. Eyes round with panic and worry.
I shove through the fog, searching. Where is she? My muscles prepare for another fight. She cried out for me. I heard it, but where is she now? Adrenaline rockets through my veins.
A grip on my arm. I’m pulled back. No. They can’t keep me from her. I whirl on my attacker. My hand wraps around a neck. I push back and up, holding my enemy off the ground by the throat.
The voices yell louder. I squeeze tight, growling, ready to watch death pass through the eyes of the fucker.
Those eyes, wide with fear. And pain.
They roll back. Tears drip from chocolate brown irises.
My hold quivers.
Layla.
Layla
Oh, God. No! Not Blake. He promised he’d never hurt me.
I claw at his forearms. My eyes water, and splintering pain erupts in my throat. Everything around his enraged face fades to black. I try to talk, but my windpipe won’t allow it. Please, Blake. See me.
He blinks fast.
I fight for consciousness.
Jonah’s forearm crushes against his throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Snap out of it. Break through, man, fuck!”
The grip on my neck lets up. He drops his hand, and I crumble to the floor, gasping for air. Jonah wrestles a writhing Blake to the couch. He throws him face down into the cushions and digs his knee into his back.
He turned on me. All I did was touch his arm, and he turned on me. But that wasn’t my Blake. I saw it in his eyes.
Axelle and Raven pull me to my feet, asking me if I’m hurt.
“I’m okay.” I cough and swallow past the burn in my throat. “I’m okay.”
“Mom, what’s wrong with him?” Axelle’s sobbed words are laced with worry.
“I don’t know. He lost it.” That’s the only way I can make sense of what happened. One minute I was hanging on everything Stewart said, and the next… total chaos.
Stewart’s body lies motionless on the floor; his face’s coated in his own blood. Searching deep for empathy—or hell, pity—I find nothing but satisfaction. He had it coming. He practically begged for it with the hideous insight he provided into my past after Blake’s repeated demands for him to stop. Stewart goaded Blake into throwing the first punch. But why? So he could pull out a weapon and claim self-defense? But there’s no weapon.
Blake’s still on the couch, and Jonah’s talking close to his face. I can’t hear him, but whatever he’s saying doesn’t look pleasant.
I grab Axelle around the shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
Killian looks out the window. “Cops are here.”
Axelle, Raven, and I huddle around the kitchen table, and Killian opens the front door.
Officers rush in, low to the ground, guns raised. “Everyone, stay where you are, hands up.” They move through to the living room, and out of my eyeshot.
“Put your guns away. He’s okay.” Jonah’s voice bellows from the living room.
“Lower your weapons.”
I cower, waiting for the gunshot that thankfully never comes.
Raven pulls a chair from my kitchen table and moves it to face me. “Are you sure you’re okay? Does anything hurt?” Her eyes make passes from my shoulders to my chin.
“I’m okay.” I rub my tender neck. “A little freaked out, but I’m not hurt.”
“Mom, are you sure? There’s an ambulance downstairs. They could check you—”
“Shh, no!” I shake my head, realizing what will happen if the cops find out about what Blake did to me. “We can’t tell the cops.”
“Layla—”
“Please, Raven. I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s not right.” I point to the living room. “That wasn’t the Blake I know. I saw his eyes. He wasn’t there.”
She glares at me, her lips pursed.
“You’ve known Blake now for how long? Has he ever shown that kind of violent behavior before? Especially toward women?”
She chews on her lip, and shakes her head. “No. That wasn’t like him at all.”
I nod. “Give me a few days to think. Something’s wrong, I just… he’s been paranoid lately and… I need time to think. We can’t rat him out to the cops until we know exactly what’s going on.”
“I agree with Mom. Blake’ll be in enough trouble for what he did to my da—Stewart.”
“Okay, Layla. It’s your call,” Raven says.
“Quiet, for now. Until I get more information. Then—”
“Mrs. Moorehead?” A young cop with a friendly smile strolls up to me from the living room.
“Layla. Call me Layla.” My voice sounds rough and garbled.
“Layla, I’m Lieutenant Hodgeson. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
He asks for my version of events. I tell him exactly what happened but leave out the detail about Blake coming after me. He writes on his pad of paper, flips a page, and writes more.
“Did he say anything to you? From the first punch to the last, was he coherent and communicative?”
I want them. They’re mine.
A fierce wave of protectiveness surges within me. “No, not really. He’d mumbled something after the first punch, but after that he didn’t speak.”
Lieutenant Hodgeson makes some notes then puts his pad and pen into his shirt pocket. “Your boyfriend’s going to be taken to the station and be put under arrest for felony assault.”
Shit. “But he was protecting us. Stewart’s the one who should be arrested. He barged into my home and made threats. Blake was trying to protect us. Everything he did was to keep us safe.” My voice is getting higher and higher, and worry for Blake’s future spikes my adrenaline.
I can’t let him go down for this. Heat flares at my neck. I try to soothe it with my hand.
The lieutenant’s eyes are warm with compassion. “Let me ask you something. Have you seen Mr. Daniels take anything recently? Drugs of any kind?”
“Drugs? No, he’s an athlete. He’d never put anything like that in his body. He works hard and…” My own words remind me of our conversation concerning his supplements. “Wait, he was taking a bunch of prescriptions.”
Lt. Hodgeson scribbles something in his notes. “Do you know what meds he was taking?”
“Um, no, but neither did he. They’re some kind of herbal concoction meant to help his training.”
He looks to the other cop standing next to him. The man nods.
“Mrs.—I mean, Layla, we suspect that Mr. Daniels was under the influence of a drug that might elevate his temper. Have you noticed any change in his temper or his ability to control himself lately?”
“Yes—”
“Yeah.” Jonah steps up and into the conversation.
He noticed it, too?
“He pulled something similar in the octagon about two weeks ago. And before that… fuck.” He runs his hands through his hair. “He told me something was off. Said he felt like he was going to bust out of his skin, but he didn’t know why.”
My stomach flips and surges. Goose bumps pepper my skin. He’s been dealing with this for weeks? All those times he’d lock down, storm out of a room, or race around locking doors. How did I miss it?
He takes more notes, this time shaking his head. “Do you have the name of the doctor who was treating Mr. Daniels?”
Jonah pinches the bridge of his nose.
I turn to the cop and face him head on. “Yeah, I do. Xavier. Dr. Michael Xavier.”