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?”

steeling myself for another

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Life in

out her legs. “But let’s do this anyway.”

reverberates through the apartment, and Lisa and I groan in unison. We don’t have to check. Of course it’s Kellan. Here to pick us up, just like every

with exasperation. “Don’t

“There’s nothing in my

Lisa as a blush creeps up her cheeks. Well, well. What do we have here? But before I

mercifully short, but not short enough to avoid the dread pooling in my stomach. Jericho. Another day of his disapproval and disdain. I’m really starting to like him, but also I hate

us, his scarred

scowl. “You’re late.”

antimist aring at

in Westwood (IV)

about we bring donuts tomorrow? All you can eat, if we can just take a little break today…”

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

unrepentant, and takes

trainer who seems to hate us. But

I need this. Need to be stronger, faster, better.

For whatever comes

and keep running, pushing through the pain. One foot in front of the other. One mile. Two.

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, throbbing ache that pulses with each labored breath. I’m convinced my limbs have liquefied, reduced to useless, quivering jelly. Beside me,

Life in

face flushed crimson from exertion.

hundred sit–ups. Now.” Jericho’s command cuts through the

argument.

groans, the sound a pitiful whimper. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters

my body. “Sorry, Jericho. My legs have officially

sneer. “Well, aren’t

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

icy slits. “Practice or spar. You’ve got two seconds to

choose.”

heart sinks, a leaden weight in my chest. Neither

the alternative–incurring Jericho’s

Life in Westwood

likes

dry as I force the words past my

her expression grim. “Practice,” she

razor’s edge, sharp