Page 24 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)
“I don’t want you jumping into my shit again. But if you do , you can’t just slap a guy over the helmet. That’s not…” I scrub a hand over my face. “That’s not a good look. Not for me. Not for you.”
He winces. “Sorry.”
“You ever thrown a real punch before?”
“Sure have,” he says, way too fast, making me squint at him. He clears his throat. “Maybe just… not so recently.”
Why is this guy so obsessed with looking and sounding tougher than he is?
I step onto the mat and motion for him to join me. He does, dragging his feet just a little. As he steps up, he pushes the sleeves of his hoodie higher, and I get a proper look at the tattoos I’ve only ever caught flashes of before.
I’d assumed they formed some random dark pattern, abstract, maybe geometric, something edgy for the sake of it, but it’s not.
It’s flowers.
Flowers I recognize from too many childhood hours in overgrown gardens. Cosmos. Cornflowers near the elbow. Something like forget-me-nots winding down his forearm. The ink is dark and bold, like he tried to turn flowers into armor.
My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I have to shake my head once to clear it.
Weird kid. Weird vibe. Weird choice.
I square my stance and wave him closer. “Fists up.”
He mimics me, but one hand is too high, the other is sagging, and his elbows are flared like chicken wings.
God, he really is like a baby deer. All startled stares and shaky legs .
I huff a laugh. “You’re not in a Disney montage. Let’s fix your stance.”
Stepping closer, I lift his arm by the elbow, and he tenses immediately, breath catching in a tiny hitch. I glance at him, but he’s looking dead ahead, eyes wide and locked on some invisible threat across the gym.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he blurts, voice way too high again. Then clears his throat. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Right.” I guide his fists into place. “Even if you don’t want to get into a fight, sometimes you just need to know how to hit something without hurting yourself.” I instruct him to shift his weight to the balls of his feet, then nudge his back leg slightly with mine.
He gasps again.
“What is with you?” I ask, half-amused. “You allergic to contact?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”
“Expect it. A punch is physical. You think a guy’s going to ask permission before throwing hands?”
He nods, then blows out a breath. “Right.”
“Okay. Watch me.” I step back, take my stance again, and show him a proper jab. Then I do it again, slower. “Now you.”
He mimics it, and it’s not terrible, but it’s not great either.
“You punch like a T-Rex,” I mutter.
“I do not .”
“Short arms with poor rotation and no follow-through.”
He tries again, this time stepping into it a little more. There’s some force behind it, and okay, maybe he’s stronger than he looks, but the form is still off.
I move in behind him and put my hands on his shoulders, adjusting them. “You need to pivot through the hips.” I lower my voice as I guide the movement. “Like that. Tight core, drive from the back leg.”
He stiffens as if I just whispered a death sentence in his ear.
I sigh. “What now?”
“N-nothing.” His face is a little red, though. Ears pink.
What in the world?
I step back and let him go at it again. He punches the air with a little more aggression this time, like he’s angry.
Better.
“Okay, you’re still locking your upper body too much. You’re not going to generate power like that. You’ve got to rotate more.” My fingers push against the front of his hoodie to reposition his upper body.
But the second I make contact with his chest, he flinches like I burned him and jerks back. By the time I blink, he’s three full steps away, eyes wide and locked on me like I’m something dangerous.
I freeze, and my hands hover in midair before I slowly raise them, palms out. “Whoa, mate.”
His mouth opens, then shuts again, before his gaze flicks to the exit, then back to me.
Fuck.
I should have asked for permission to touch him. Now he thinks I’m exactly what they say I am. It hits like a fucking body blow, and something cold cracks open in my chest. Because yeah, I’ve gotten used to the whispers, the side-eyes, the way people pull back like I might snap. But not from him.
God, please don’t let him be afraid of me.
Keeping my movements slow, I lower my hands and start to turn away, but then he blurts out, “It’s not you.”
My jaw tightens. “Sure, it’s not.”
“No, I mean it. It’s not you. ” He takes half a step toward me. “It’s a me problem, okay? I don’t like…” he swallows, “… I don’t like people touching my chest. That’s all. It’s not about you.” He’s wide-eyed and breathing hard. “I’m sorry I made you think that.”
“Okay,” I say finally, hesitantly, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. My gaze drops to the mats beneath us, and my fingers twitch uselessly. I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t know what to do with any of this.
The rubber soles of Mini Crews’s shoes whisper against the mat as he fidgets. Then, quietly, he asks, “Why don’t you tell them?”
My head lifts. “Tell who what?”
“That you didn’t do it.” His voice is soft but steady now, like he’s made up his mind to ask this. “Why do you let Delacroix and the others talk shit like that?”
I stare at him. No one’s ever asked me that before. Not straight out to my face, not like this. I open my mouth, then close it again.
Not knowing how else to respond, I ask, “Why do you think I should?”
“Because it’s not fair how they treat you,” he says, like it’s that simple.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because you didn’t do it.”
I huff a sound that might be a laugh but feels more like a cough. “Who says that?”
“I say it,” he fires back, and it’s sharp in that nasally voice of his. “And you should too. Why don’t you? Why don’t you tell them to fuck off and that what they say isn’t true?”
“Because I believe in believing victims.” My gaze finds the mat again. My hands are fists now, clenched at my sides, not from anger but something heavier.
Nobody understands. But how could they ?
Whenever I try to defend myself, it feels like I’m betraying that belief.
And it wouldn’t matter anyway. She wrecked my life with a single sentence.
No proof, no charges. Just her word. And in a world that rightly believes victims, that was enough.
The only way this stain will come off will be if she stands up and says she made it all up, and I know that’s never going to happen.
“And what if I believe you’re the victim in this case?”
Fuck.
My throat burns at his words, and my eyes sting.
I clench my jaw, hard, like that’ll stop it, and I can bite the emotion back into place.
I shouldn’t feel like this, not because of him or anyone.
I’ve held it together this long, I’ve survived the stares, the silence, the suspicion.
I’m supposed to take the hits and keep going, not fall apart because one guy looked at me like I’m not the villain.
I can’t handle this anymore.
“Don’t,” I say, but it’s barely audible.
Mini Crews tilts his head. “What?”
“Don’t say that. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need pity. I don’t need you standing up for me like I’m some wounded dog that can’t fight his own battles.”
His eyes widen, lips parting in preparation to speak, but I keep going. Louder. Maybe if I shout loud enough, it’ll drown out everything else.
“I don’t need you to take my side, do you understand? Didn’t bloody ask for that. I didn’t ask you to get between me and Delacroix, and I sure as hell didn’t ask you to look at me like I’m something broken that needs fixing. I don’t need this.”
My chest heaves as I grit out, “I need nobody .”
The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s thick .
Mini Crews shifts his weight. “Good thing I am a nobody, then.”
That little shit.
The balls on him.
I spin on my heel and bolt.
It’s not a graceful exit, not some cool, composed retreat. I run out of the gym like a fucking coward, away from the heat in my throat and the crack in my chest. I don’t stop until the air outside hits like punishment, scraping through my lungs.
I stand there alone, breathing hard.
And I don’t look back.
Because if he follows, I’ll either say too much or nothing at all.
And either one of them might break me.