BITTERSWEET PART 3: ARMATA AND CALISTA

Calista

The mat is cool beneath my palms, the fabric of my gloves worn and familiar. I throw a punch, another, then a kick, feeling the burn in my muscles, the sweet ache that says I’m getting stronger.

Every jab, every uppercut, it’s like I’m hitting back at the terror that’s been clutching at my heart since the attack. With every drop of sweat, I’m reclaiming pieces of myself I thought I’d lost.

Armata’s standing there, all coach and no-nonsense, watching every move. “Longer reach, Calista,” Armata calls out, his tone as sharp as the snap of my gloves against the bag. “Hit it like you actually want to hurt it.”

I grind my teeth and extend my arm with a snarl, my fist connecting harder, imagining it’s the shadow that haunts me, not just a sack of sand. “How’s that for intent?” I challenge between grunts.

His laugh is a low rumble, approval lacing his voice. “Good girl,” he says and heat immediately pools in my core.

What the hell.

I wouldn’t recognize the girl in the mirror now—swea