Page 115 of Cara

Dante’s voice echoes through the gym as Bo picks himself up from the ground, rubbing his busted lip in disbelief.

Hawk-eyed, I watch every movement he makes, even the insignificant ones.

“I… I just need to warm up,” Bo grunts.

Taking way too much pleasure from this, Dante counters, “Keep telling yourself that, bro.”

Although my surroundings have changed from a decrepit warehouse to an ultramodern facility, where weapons glint from the walls, and loud music pulses through the speakers, my body stalks the same. I’m navigating this new environment with the same calm and precise footwork, prowling like a predator ready to strike.

When Dante stepped into the room thirty minutes ago, he told Bo, “X will have your head if you make her bleed.”

While he was right, what began as a mere sparring session has evolved into something much more complicated.

Their inability to see me as a worthy opponent has ignited the thread of rebelliousness I always find myself suppressing.

It makes sense that they wouldn’t know how hard I’ve worked. The blood I’ve spilled from others and myself just to watch Bo recover from one of my strikes. To see Dante’s eyes widen with disbelief from the sidelines, studying my learned behavior.

“Don’t insult me,” I retort irritably. “Don’t hold back for Xavier’s sake.”

Dante quickly realizes his poor choice of words. “I didn’t mean it like that, Sophie.”

Bo’s tongue flicks through the gap in his lower lip as he rolls his shoulders back, extending his arms in front of him.

“And when he tears my head off?”

“Let me handle him.”

With renewed determination, Bo charges at me.

My forearms can only absorb so many of his strikes before I feel him grip my wrist, yanking it into the small of my back.

It comes naturally how my leg swings back, targeting the vulnerability of his knee, disrupting his balance just enough for me to break free from his hold and land a punch in his gut.

And I don’t wait for him to recover, as one should when you’re fighting a friend. He catches most of my hits; he’s definitely the better fighter, but he’s on the defense. Most people I brawl with can’t match my rage or my sheer determination to win. The possibility that he might be holding back pushes me to extend my limbs harder, forcing him to confront me.

“Shit,” Bo gasps, stumbling backward over an upturned mat.

We’re both battered, struggling for breath.

“You gonna call it?” I say with a grin.

“I might," he laughs, casting a knowing glance at Dante. “I didn’t expect to go home today with battle scars... You’re fast.”

“You’re strong,” I counter.

“You learned this in a year?”

“Day and night. A year doing nothing else, yes.”

He watches me position myself for the next round, examining my form. “It’s definitely different than street fighting. More calculated than brutal.”

Calculated is right. He doesn’t expect that when he grabs my arms and swings me onto the mat, I let it happen so I can seize the nape of his neck, using all of my strength to send him into the cushion while swinging my legs up with the power of the move.

Dante yells from across the room as I drive my knee intoBo’s spine, fighting to keep him pinned. With another knee placed firmly, I gain a firmer grip, my blunt nails sinking into his wrists.

“Call it.”

Bo lets out a disbelieving chuckle, his bruised hand flaring in defeat. I release him, still second-guessing the validity of this fight as I watch him strain to stand. But Dante is losing his mind, rambling on about the hundred bucks he’s going to collect and how Mimi will freak out about this as Bo draws me into a crushing embrace.