Protected by the MC: Bear Shifter Biker Reverse Harem Page 13

  My throat is drier than the Sahara. I feel like I didn’t have a drop of water in days. That’s how much this story exhausted me. Zarael reads my body language and immediately rushes for the pitcher of water and pours me a glass. I drink it thirstily, emptying it in one big desperate gulp.

  “I didn’t know you had to see that,” Theron’s voice is soft and soothing. He talks like a loving protector. “No one should ever see that.”

  “I…” My lips are trembling. My heart is beating wildly and I fear it’ll jump out of my chest and I will remain heartless forever. “I never even knew her name…”

  With those words, I break down and my whole body starts to shiver uncontrollably. Tears start rolling down my face, big and salty. The kind of tears you would cry when your whole world is about to crumble down before your feet and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. I’ve never been afraid to cry. Not even now. My silvery tears just run down and I don’t see the sunshine through the storm anymore. The leftover tears, the tears that I never showed to the world, the tears that know the name of that liberated woman but will not reveal the secret to anyone. Tears that tear apart, but that have the power to build back up from the ashes, healing along the way.

  I feel two pairs of arms around me, trying to shield me from the pain, but they can’t. They can only protect me from the pain and hurt that comes from outside. How could they ever protect me from the pain that comes from within?

  Chapter 22

  Dex

  I get the feeling that she’s been avoiding me the whole day. I wonder if she heard me yell. Did I yell loud? I probably was. I usually do. Especially when I’m pissed like that. But I cool down quickly after and I think this is the part that she hasn’t learned about me yet. And today, I haven’t had the chance to talk to her, since she crashed off my bike like that.

  I pass by Theron’s shack and I hear voices. So, she’s talking. I hear her voice, melodious and soft. She’s fine. At least, as fine as she could be, under the circumstances. As I pass by, I slow down my pace. I hear Zarael’s voice, too. All three are there. I want to join them. There are some things she’d best hear from me, not from Theron or Zarael.

  For the first time, I feel tongue tied around a girl. I never had this problem before. I don’t know why, when she’s just a girl. A girl like any other. That’s what I try to tell myself, the heavy machinery of my brain working round the clock to explain this over and over again, but my tongue doesn’t listen. All I could ever do was impress girls and I didn’t have to do much talking for that. I’d just flex a little and that was that. They’d fall for me easily. Sometimes, I barely had to lift my finger. But Isabel is different. She doesn’t care about any of that superficial bullshit and that’s exactly what I’ve been focusing on all this time with girls. Just meaningless one-night stands. I wasn’t even interested in hearing what they had to say, unless it concerned me somehow, or how awesome I am.

  Instinctively, I hurry up and pass Theron’s shack. Quickly, before they could even notice I was close by. I know exactly where I need to be. I just need to get this out of my system and I’ll be my old self. I bet I could get her to bed if I wanted to. Sure, I could. She’s just a girl, after all. But, there’s something wrong. I don’t see her as a one-night stand. Is this what it feels like when you care about someone who isn’t your blood relation?

  As soon as I enter my sanctuary, I scan the room for my boxing gloves. They shine, all red, in the corner where I left them last time. My babies. I slide my hands into them. A perfect fit every time. There’s nothing else in the world that accepts me in the way that they do. For them, I’m enough, I’m perfect as I am. I walk confidently over to the punching bag. I rest my hands on its sides, feeling its heaviness. I slide my hands up and down, and my first punch is hard, strong, sudden. I don’t hold back. My anger flows out of me with each following punch.

  One. Two. Three. I barely exhale.

  I don’t know how long it lasts until I finally stop. I feel exhausted, spent. My soul is dislocated from my body. I’m so tired it’s crazy. After every session like this one, there is a process of recovery I undergo. It never takes long. I’m usually OK by the following day. I drink some water and wipe my sweaty forehead. My t-shirt is soaked. I’m dying for a shower, after such a workout and a good night’s rest. Yeah, that’ll do the trick.

  At that moment, I hear someone knocking. I twitch my head in the direction of the door, wondering. It’s never locked. All my brothers know that. I’m usually the one who spends most of my time here, but they know they don’t need to knock.

  “Come in!” I shout, hopeful of who I’m going to see.

  Isabel slowly opens the door and enters. She’s wearing a soft smile. It almost looks like she’s shyly trying to apologize for the interruption. Instead of saying anything, she just waves and keeps smiling.

  “Hey…” I tell her, still breathing heavily. A few deep breaths steady my breathing.

  “Hey,” she repeats, closing the door behind her. She looks confused, a little, blushing. Like someone used a bit too much red on her cheeks. But it suits her. She looks sweet.

  She takes a few steps to me and even manages to look at me in the eyes as she does so. I think she’s the shyest girl I’ve ever met. I can’t even imagine how she must have felt those two weeks here while she was told not to speak unless it was necessary. Her round cheeks look like apples and the Devil in me wants to take a bite. Her messy curls are falling down her back and she lifts her hand to try and tame one that fell over her right eye. Her blushing feels so amazing, like she doesn’t belong to this world. She’s got a delicate kind of sweetness, like candy they don’t make anymore. They’ve stopped making it because not many people liked the taste of it. When you’d put it in your mouth, it’d be bitter and sour at first, you’d have to keep sucking at it to reach the sweet creamy inside. Not everyone has the patience for that.

  “You know,” she suddenly starts talking and she’s got my attention. “Out of everyone here, you’re the most difficult one to talk to.” As she says those words, she sounds so honest that I can’t stop myself from laughing.

  “Really?” I ask, when I’m able to catch my breath. She’s so cute I could eat her up. Literally.

  “Yes,” she nods. “I hate it, because I think you’re the one who’s played the main role in saving me.”

  “Well, now,” I rake my fingers through my hair. That ego boost feels really nice. “I can’t take all the credit, even though I’d really like to, believe me.”

  “In any case, I’d like to thank you,” I hear her say. “And also, to apologize.”

  “Apologize?” I tilt my head.

  She has her hands in front of her and I think I hear a cracking knuckle. She’s nervous. She may have come on strong, but all that self-confidence has gone out the door. Her shoulders are slumped inward, she looks even smaller than she is, almost like a helpless little girl.

  “I know I ruined your plans and you must be so angry,” she whispers and I realize she’s scared of me.

  “No, no, I’m not,” I rush over to her and I press my boxing gloves on her shoulders. She flinches when I touch her. “Listen, I can be a fucking jackass. Any of my brothers will tell you. So, when you see me acting like a crazy, angry jackass, don’t pay any attention to me.”

  “I didn’t mean - “

  “I know,” I interrupt her. “I just want you to know that there’s no need to apologize. None of this is your fault.”

  “I wish I could believe that,” she whispers again, her voice so quiet that it simply disappears around us.

  This is the moment when girls start crying and I cringe. I can’t let her start crying. Shift her focus somehow. Make her think of something else. Show her she isn’t worthy of self-pity. She’s so much more. She just needs to see that.

  “You know what I’m good at?” I ask her and I see from the look on her reddened face that she wasn’t expecting such a question
. I don’t wait for her to ask me what. “Practicality.” She lifts her left eyebrow. “I’m practical. I’m an angry jackass, but a practical angry jackass.” This makes her smile. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that we could spend the whole evening, the whole night and then days just crying over spilled milk. Or whatever they say we’re supposed to cry over. I say no. Sure, you found yourself in a shitty situation. A fucked-up situation no girl, actually no person should ever find themselves in. But it happened to you. You know why? Not because you’re a bad person, not because you deserved it in some fucked up way, not because karma is a bitch, but simply because shit happens and there’s rarely something you can do about it.” I rest for a breather and I see that she’s listening. “So, instead of saying, ‘why did this fucked up thing happen to me?’, you should find the silver lining. I mean, you’re alive, aren’t you? You’re healthy. You’re physically well. You have the chance to go back home and live the rest of your life the way you want to. Sure, they messed you up. I know how that feels. They stole a moment of your life and turned it into a nightmare. That part you can’t change. But you know what? You can change the ending. This is your fucking movie. Your fucking life. Give them that one moment. Let them have it. Then reclaim the rest of your life by moving on, by becoming stronger.”

  After this dramatic monologue, I feel like I deserve a freakin’ Oscar. At least. My mouth is dry and I eye the half-empty water bottle. She is still silent. The corners of her lips are not revealing a smile, but her eyes are gleaming. She seems to look for a distraction, but doesn’t find it quickly enough. I know we’re both in an emotional hurricane right now, which threatens to consume us both. The winds are breaking through to our very core and even though it’s frightening, it’s thrilling at the same time. I know she feels the same way.

  Suddenly, her body relaxes. Her mouth parts slightly and I’m not sure if she’s going to smile or talk. Either would suit me. She jerks her head upward, gesturing at the punching bag.

  “Can you show me how it’s done?” she asks and I can barely believe my ears. She wants to punch? Hell yeah.

  “You want to see or do?” I wonder.

  “You never learn by watching,” she gives me a smile that assures me there is so much more going on underneath this calm surface that she shows everyone.

  Instead of a reply, I walk over to the corner and open a small wardrobe. I find the tiniest pair of gloves I could find and I walk back to her, throwing them in her lap. She reacts instantly and manages to catch them. One point.

  “Put them on,” I tell her.

  “But, I’ve never - “

  “Like you said, you learn best by doing,” I wink at her, then turn my back, to walk over to the punching bag.

  A few moments later, she is standing next to me. I glance at the gloves. They look perfect. Good girl.

  “With the punching bag, there are only two scenarios,” I tell her. “Either you’re working the punching bag or the punching bag is working you.”

  “It doesn’t look that hard,” she frowns. “I mean, you just punch as hard as you can, no?”

  “Thinking like a true amateur,” I chuckle, in good-nature. “You’re partly right, though. Working with a punching bag is a combo of two things. It’s good punching with good body movement. Sounds easy, no?”

  “Yeah,” she nods.

  “And, still, so many people can’t do it right,” I sigh. “You don’t want to practice just power. That doesn’t do you much good, because no matter how good you get with the bag, that is too different from fighting a real opponent. You know why?”

  “Your opponent moves?” She gives me her best shot and I love it. She’s actually listening.

  “Exactly. Your opponent isn’t a bag that’s just waiting for you to hit it and doesn’t hit back. Your opponent hits you back. Hard. And, the harder you hit, the harder your opponent hits, too. So, it’s all about skill and speed, not just punching power. Remember that. That’s crucial.”

  “OK,” she nods again and I see her hands are already raising, as if they’re itching to hit.

  “Alright then. If you want to punch good, you need to snap and flow.”

  “Snap and flow?” she repeats, confused.

  Instead of explaining, I punch the bag strong, barely moving the bag.

  “See? That’s a snap punch. You want to hit the bag, not push it. You aren’t trying to pierce through it with your hand. You make your punch, but then you allow that reaction to snap back. I mean…” I sigh. Explaining these things is harder than I thought. “If you hit properly, you’ll feel a snap back to you, but not because you pull your hand back. The impact rebound returns to you. They’re tricky to do, but they’re way better than pushing punches. They let you preserve energy, while at the same time punching harder and faster. You try.”

  She hesitates. She stands in a boxing pose and I see she’s trying to focus. I give her some time. She takes a swing, but doesn’t reach the punching bag. She’s just practicing. She hits the air a few more times and then slams against the bag so hard that it rattles from the chain.

  “I moved it,” she says shyly.

  “Great for your first try,” I assure her. “And, practice makes perfect. Now, for the flow.”

  I turn to the bag and gently urge her to move backwards a little. I punch the bag several times, not allowing more than 3 seconds of pause between each blow. As I change up combos of punches, I keep moving around, making sure the punches are natural, calm and concentrated, as my hands dance forward and backward. Finally, I stop and lower my hands.

  “See? Flow,” I smile. “Connected combinations of punches. It’s not just a mindless attack, until you can’t keep your hands up any longer.

  “I don’t think I can do that,” she shakes her head in disbelief.

  “Don’t worry,” I smile. “I wasn’t able to do it properly for a long time. I eventually got better at it. Just start by throwing light punches. Try not to move the bag too much. Feel the rebound and accept it. Don’t pull back. Allow your hand to react naturally.”

  “Should I move or just stand in one place?” she asks.

  “Start by standing,” I tell her. “Just keep your feet firmly on the ground, back straight, hands in front. Never lean in and don’t use your shoulders. Always face the bag, never try to shoulder in on it. That leads to bad balance and in boxing, balance is your best friend. If you want to keep moving a little, just focus on your hands. Many beginners make the mistake of putting their hands down while moving around the bag. Don’t jump all over the place. This tires you out unnecessarily. Always have both feet on the ground, even when you’re moving. Just make small steps and don’t cross your legs.”

  “You know I won’t remember any of that the moment I leave out that door?” she tells me with a smile.

  “That’s why you’ll throw as many punches now as it’s necessary for you to remember,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t nod. Instead, she punches the shit out of that bag. I hear that satisfying crack, as her hair flies wildly and little droplets of sweat appear on her forehead. I occasionally remind her to straighten her back, or not use her shoulder, but this aside, she’s a natural. She does a straight 2-hour workout, with breaks, of course, and by the end of it, we’re both sitting on the bench, exhausted. We drank all our water and we’re both soaking wet. The room echoes with our heavy breathing, but I feel now that the storm has passed. The hurricane has calmed down.

  “I have no idea how,” she somehow finds enough energy to speak first, “but, I feel so much better.”

  “This is where I let all my frustrations out,” I explain, looking around.

  We both see the same used up, wooden shack, with creaking floors and jumbled up equipment. Whoever would come in here, would probably see the same. But, now, she sees exactly what I see, the hidden image, the one beneath the surface. She understands that my mind gets angry sometimes, but my mind knows h
ow to deal with it. My hands are my tools, they can anger and they can soothe.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been really angry,” she whispers, thinking, trying to remember.

  “Is it because you really never felt the need for it or because they told you it’s not nice to be angry?”

  She gives me a meaningful glance, one of those looks that pierces through all your defenses, through all your protections and hits you in the very core. I already know the answer. I wonder if she does.

  “It’s just easier to let go,” she replies.

  “But the problem is, you don’t let go. You sweep it under your carpet, until there is no more room left. And, then what?” I’ve never spoken with anyone like this. I want to help her. I want her to know that she can be whoever she is with me, with us. We will accept her as she is. We already have.