Page 19 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

TALON

I still see it every time I close my eyes. Alex, hunched forward, one arm buried beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, eyes glued to the monitor as Z and Oz took their turns with Vesper. Fuck. Some things burn themselves into your brain. You don’t come back from that.

I drop my water bottle and towel on the bench and jam my earbuds in, scrolling through my playlist until I find something angry enough to match my mood. The haunted melody of ‘Dangerous’ by Sleep Token thunders through my skull as I approach the punching bag hanging in the corner.

My first hit lacks proper form—all frustration, no technique.

Uncle Leo would've made me do fifty burpees for that sloppy shit.

I reset my stance, remembering his endless drills.

Feet shoulder-width apart. Protect the face.

Rotate from the hips. The second punch lands with a satisfying thud that reverberates up my arm.

Better.

I fall into a rhythm, each impact harder than the last. Left jab.

Right cross. Left hook. The bag swings wildly as I unleash combinations that would make my old boxing coach proud.

Sweat begins to bead on my forehead as I lose myself in the movement, my knuckles beginning to sting despite the wraps.

The music pounds in sync with my heartbeat, drowning out everything but the satisfying percussion of flesh against leather.

I'm not even sure what I'm angry about anymore. Alex's voyeurism? The Collector and what he’s done to Vesper, and now is doing to Luca?

The Collector’s twisted empire—the auctions, the way he treats people like commodities—feeds a fury in me that builds with every punch. If I ever get my hands on him, I’ll make him suffer in ways that would make even Alex look away.

The punching bag becomes his face in my mind. I strike harder, faster, my technique unraveling into raw aggression. The rage I’ve been holding back finally breaks free, uncoiling like something primal. Unrelenting. Uncontrolled. My inner demon, unleashed at last.

I picture him watching Vesper’s medical rape. I imagine him holding Luca captive, preparing to sell his sperm to the highest bidder. The thought ignites a fresh surge of rage, and I unleash a flurry of punches that sends the bag swinging violently on its chain.

A tap on my shoulder sends primal instinct surging through me. I pivot hard, right fist already cocked back, ready to strike?—

“Shit!” I barely pull the punch in time as Vesper jumps backward, her green eyes wide with surprise. My fist freezes inches from her face, trembling with the effort of stopping mid-swing.

“Jesus Christ, Vesper,” I gasp, yanking out my earbuds. “I almost took your head off.” My heart hammers against my ribs. “What are you doing down here at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She's wearing loose sleep shorts and one of Z’s t-shirts.

It’s so big on her that the shorts are barely visible under the hem.

The hint of bedhead that somehow makes her look even more beautiful.

There's a slight flush to her cheeks, and I briefly wonder if it's from climbing down the stairs or from what she was doing earlier with the twins.

“Couldn't sleep,” I manage, trying to regulate my breathing. My heart rate is still elevated, adrenaline coursing through my veins from both the workout and nearly punching her. “Sorry about the...you know.” I gesture vaguely with my still-clenched fist.

“My fault for sneaking up on you.” She moves past me to grab my water bottle, taking a sip before handing it to me. The casual intimacy of the gesture doesn't escape me.

“Why are you awake?”

“Nightmare,” she freely admits.

A nightmare? Unlikely, considering Z would have been awake in half a second if she so much as whimpered in her sleep. I don't call her on the obvious lie. She clearly doesn’t want to share the real reason that drove her down here in the middle of the night.

“Z or Oscar know you're down here?” I ask, taking the water and downing half of it in one go.

She shrugs, her gaze dropping to my knuckles. “Your wraps are coming loose.”

I glance down at my knuckles, where the fabric has indeed started to unravel. “Hazard of trying to murder a punching bag.”

“Here,” she murmurs, reaching out. “Let me.”

I hesitate before extending my arm, watching as she takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are cool against my slick skin as she gently unwraps the fabric, then begins winding it back into place with smooth, confident movements.

“You've done this before,” I observe.

“My father had one of the enforcers teach Luca to fight. They let me observe sometimes. He always had trouble with his wraps.”

Her fingers work methodically, the gentle pressure against my skin sharp against the violence I just unleashed on the bag. There’s something intimate about the way she tends to me—careful yet confident.

“Your brother boxed?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the electricity shooting up my arm at her touch.

“He was good, too. Quick on his feet.”

“And what about you?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “My father would never allow that. My role was to get married and have babies. Luca was meant to rule the empire. To be ruthless, cruel, and vicious. All things that he isn’t.”

“Do you want to learn?” The question tumbles from my lips before I can think better of it.

Vesper’s fingers pause on my wraps. “Learn what? Boxing?”

“No. Self-defense. How to throw a proper punch.” The idea feels right as soon as I say it. “Everyone should know how to protect themselves.”

A flicker of interest crosses her face, quickly replaced by hesitation. “I wouldn't even know where to start.”

“I could teach you,” I offer. “Now, if you want.”

The way her father saw her—as nothing but a vessel for continuing the family line—makes my blood boil.

It's too familiar, cuts too close to home.

My own mother was just a convenient womb to Marcus St. James, discarded once she'd served her purpose.

A mistress who gave him a bastard son, then disappeared from his life like she never mattered.

She deserved better. Vesper deserves better.

“You're more than what they've reduced you to,” I say quietly, watching as she finishes securing my wrap. “You're not just some prize mare to be bred.”

Her head lifts slightly, something flickering across her face—surprise, maybe. Or recognition.

“My father would disagree.”

“Your father is dead, princess. His opinions don’t matter anymore.” My voice hardens, steady with conviction. “Women aren’t baby factories. My mother was treated as if she didn’t matter after she gave birth to me. Like she’d served her only purpose. I won’t let anyone treat you that way.”

Vesper’s features soften at my admission. She brushes her thumb gently over my wrapped knuckle, the tenderness of the gesture unraveling something inside me.

“You remind me of him sometimes,” she says quietly. “Luca, I mean. He never saw women as objects either. My father hated that about him.”

“Your brother sounds like a good man.”

“The best,” she says, her voice catching. “Which is why I’m terrified of what they’re doing to him.”

Before I can think better of it, I reach out, cupping her face with my free hand.

“We’re going to find him, Vesper. I swear it.” She leans into the touch for a breath, her eyes fluttering shut. When they open again, they shine with fresh resolve.

“Teach me,” she says, firm. “Show me how to fight.” I nod and slowly let my hand drop from her cheek.

“First things first—stance.”

I step back, giving her space, and settle into position. “Feet shoulder-width apart, dominant foot slightly behind. Guard your face.” I raise my fists, demonstrating.

Vesper mimics me, her movements cautious but determined. I circle her, making small corrections—tilting her elbow, nudging her shoulder, adjusting the placement of her feet.

“Good,” I say, tapping her shoulder lightly to shift her posture. “Now, the jab. It’s not about power. It’s speed and precision. Quick out, quick back.”

I show her slowly, left fist darting forward, then snapping back to guard.

“Your turn,” I encourage.

Her first attempt is hesitant—arm not fully extending, wrist slightly bent.

“Almost. Keep your wrist straight, and punch through your target.” I step behind her, gently taking her arm. “May I?”

She nods, and I guide her through the motion, feeling the tension in her muscles. “Relax your shoulders, but keep your core tight. Power comes from here,” I tap her midsection lightly, “not just your arm.”

Vesper tries again, this time with more conviction. The movement is cleaner, her form improving already.

“Better. Again.”

She throws another jab, and another, each one more confident than the last. There's a natural athleticism to her movements that suggests she could become proficient with proper training.

“Now add the cross—right hand straight from the chin, rotating your hip as you extend.” I demonstrate, then watch as she attempts to replicate the motion.

“I feel ridiculous,” she admits after a particularly awkward attempt.

“Everyone does at first. Fighting isn't natural until you train it.” I step closer, adjusting her position. “Think of it like dancing. There's a rhythm to it.”

I move to stand behind her, close enough that she can feel my presence without us actually touching. "Let your body flow with the movement." I demonstrate the combination again, letting her watch my reflection in the mirrored wall. "Jab-cross. Jab-cross. See how my weight shifts?"

She nods, determination setting her jaw as she tries again. This time, her hips rotate with the punch, generating more power.

“There you go. Now faster.”

Vesper falls into a rhythm, her movements becoming more fluid with each repetition. The hesitation melts away, replaced by a focused intensity that transforms her face. She's a quick study, adapting and improving with minimal instruction.