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?”

like that.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself for another day of torture. “Ready?”

13:37

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Ava: Life in

wincing as she stretches out her legs. “But let’s do this anyway.”

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

exasperation.

nothing in my life more important

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

dread pooling in my stomach. Jericho. Another day of his disapproval and disdain.

for us, his scarred

scowl. “You’re late.”

antimist aring at him

in Westwood (IV)

How about we bring donuts tomorrow? All you can

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

unrepentant, and takes off at a jog. I follow, my legs

life now. Early mornings, aching muscles, and a trainer who seems to hate us. But as much

need this. Need

For myself. For whatever

my teeth and keep running, pushing through the pain. One

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, Lisa’s chest heaves,

in Westwood (IV)

flushed crimson from exertion.

Now.” Jericho’s command cuts through the haze of

argument.

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

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

face twisting into a sneer. “Well, aren’t

exchange a glance, a silent acknowledgment that we’ve pushed our luck too far.

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

in

far worse. He likes

mouth dry as I force the

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

edge, sharp and unforgiving. “Good choice.”