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

1332

112

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?”

breath, steeling myself for another day of torture.

13:37

217

Ava: Life in Westwood

Lisa stands, wincing as she stretches out

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

exasperation. “Don’t

impassive. “There’s nothing in

we have here? But before I can needle her about it, she shoves past Kellan, leaving me to follow in her wake.

the training grounds is 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

waiting for us, his scarred face set in

“You’re

over the antimist aring at him “We’ll make it

in

donuts tomorrow? All you can eat, if we can just take

games? Fine.

She shrugs, unrepentant, and takes off at

trainer who seems to hate us. But as much as

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

For whatever

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

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

Life in Westwood

face flushed crimson from

Jericho’s command cuts through the haze of exhaustion, his

argument.

thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of

sends a fresh wave of agony through my body. “Sorry, Jericho. My legs have officially died. I’m going

lip curls, his scarred face twisting into a sneer. “Well, aren’t you two being

pushed our

two options,” he growls, his eyes narrowing to icy slits. “Practice or spar. You’ve got two

choose.”

heart sinks, a leaden weight in my chest. Neither option appeals,

alternative–incurring Jericho’s

Life in Westwood (IV)

likes coming up with punishments.

dry as I force the words past my lips.

nods, her expression grim. “Practice,” she echoes, her voice a

edge,