Tangled

99 Ava: Life in Westwood (IV)

A plastic thud startles me awake. I crack open an eye to see Lisa’s alarm clock skitter across the floor, her arm still extended from the throw. O

“I can’t do this anymore,” she moans into her pillow. “Everything hurts. I think my eyelashes are sore.”

I laugh, but it turns into a groan as I slide out of bed, my muscles screaming in protest. Four days of Jericho’s training from hell, and my body still hasn’t adjusted. I’m not sure it ever will.

“Do you think the bodyguards would murder Jericho if we asked nicely?” Lisa’s voice is muffled, her face still buried in her pillow.

“Stop dreaming.” I limp to the bathroom, each step an agony. “And get ready. You know he’ll just make it worse if we’re late.”

Lisa’s groan follows me as I shut the door, a smile tugging at my lips despite the pain. As much as I hate the early mornings and the constant ache in my muscles, there’s a part of me that relishes the challenge. Each day I push myself further, each day I

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99 Ava: Life in Westwood (IV)

grow stronger.

Selene would be proud.

The thought sobers me as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Four days, and still no sign of her. I’m starting to wonder if she’ll ever come back. If I’ll ever be whole again.

I splash water on my face, the cold shock chasing away the melancholy thoughts. I can’t afford to dwell on what I’ve lost. Not when I have so much to gain.

By the time I emerge from the bathroom, Lisa is up and dressed, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She shoots me a baleful look as she tugs on her

sneakers.

“I hate you for being a morning person.”

“I’m not a morning person,” I protest, grabbing my water bottle. “I’m just better at pretending than you

are.”

Lisa snorts, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Fake it till you make it, right?”

deep breath, steeling myself for another day of torture.

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in

stands, wincing as she stretches out

and I groan in unison. We don’t have to check. Of course it’s Kellan. Here to pick us

with exasperation.

expression remains impassive. “There’s nothing in my

Lisa as a blush creeps up her cheeks. Well, well. What do we have here? But before I can needle her about it, she shoves

stomach. Jericho. Another day of his disapproval and disdain. I’m really starting to like him, but also I hate

he’s waiting for us,

“You’re

at

in

can eat, if

deepens. “You want to play games? Fine. Run another mile. Both

Lisa a glare. She shrugs, unrepentant, and takes off at a

now. Early mornings, aching muscles, and a trainer who seems to

I need this.

For whatever comes

running, pushing through the pain. One foot in front of the other.

manage five miles–slow as fucking snails, Jericho points out, like he does every damn day -my legs burn. Lactic acid (something I’ve learned about in recent days) scorches my muscles, a deep,

in

flushed crimson

Now.” Jericho’s command cuts through the haze of exhaustion, his tone

argument.

me.” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on

as the movement sends a fresh wave of agony through my body. “Sorry, Jericho. My legs have

twisting into a sneer. “Well, aren’t you two being real

a glance, a silent acknowledgment that we’ve pushed our luck too far. Jericho’s patience, it seems,

his eyes narrowing to icy slits. “Practice or

choose.”

sinks, a leaden weight in my chest. Neither option appeals, not with my body screaming for mercy.

the alternative–incurring

Life in Westwood (IV)

worse. He likes coming

swallow hard, my mouth dry as I force the words past my lips.

expression grim. “Practice,” she echoes, her

smile is a razor’s edge, sharp and unforgiving. “Good choice.”