Winter's Wrath: Sacrifice (Winter's Saga #3) (17 page)

So accustomed to their routine, she didn’t even bother with the light switch as she slapped the spigot on for him.  His thirsty slurps echoed through the wide room.  Meg paced, hands on her hips until his bowl was full of fresh water and his slobbering face nudged her sweaty leg reminding her to turn off the water.  Still wallowing in her dark thoughts, Meg yanked the handle off and ran to the huge, thick punching bag hanging from a beam in the center of the room.

Dust from the dirt floor plumed at her feet as she moved, delivering strike after powerful strike to the inanimate bag.  Meg’s fists begged to feel the beating, her legs screamed to deliver throat cracking strikes.  Without thought, her body responded to the years of conditioning. 

Margo taught them from as far back as they could remember how to hold their bodies in perfect form, to use every movement efficiently, powerfully.  Her fists flew into the bag, pounding again and again.

Meg’s thoughts were slipping further into the darkness with every hit. 

You want some more truth?  The truth is I’m barely keeping my head above water.
  The blackness she was exposed to in Williams felt like it latched on to her and w
ould
n’t let go.  She sometimes felt caught in an undertow, being pulled further and further away from the safety of shore. 

Since this seems to be a morning of confessions, here’s the mother of them all: Creed haunts me.

Her heart screamed in pain at the loss of the blue-eyed avenging angel.  The look on his face as
they
drove away two months ago, his hand rubbing his chest like his heart was shattering in slow motion with every rotation of the tires pulling her further away from him.  He knew she was leaving him to die alone. 

Anguish at the thought yanked a scream from her throat.

Meg flew into a whirl of round house kicks, elbow strikes, palm thrusts and another battery of full-body fist flurries.   Her emotions were sheer anguish oscillating between images of Creed and the macabre visions from Williams.  Wherever she looked, she was tormented.  She opted to focus on her memories of Creed.

A crisp image of his crooked smile flashed in front of her. Her skin ached at the memory of the way he held her in his strong arms, though he had never been held himself.  She remembered the look in his eyes when he shared his fears of being soulless.  She could hear his voice crack with emotion when he shared how tormented he felt to have a brother hate him, beat him religiously and try to kill him.  Creed’s masculine, gruff voice echoed in her mind.  The sound of his heart beating in her ear the few times she got to hold him.  That strong whoosh-whooshing rhythm she would do anything to hear again.  The large, calloused hands holding hers made them look like a child’s in comparison.  Meg only wanted a chance to love him, but all she got were brief moments in time.  All she got was enough memories to know how close she was to her soul mate.  She never even got to touch those beautiful lips she stared at as he spoke—sharing things with her she knew he had never expressed with anyone before, ever. 

Meg ran up to the pole Alik installed just last week and flipped her body up, flung back, hooking her knees.  She hung for a moment, her tearing eyes only seeing a blurry Maze watching her with worry from the other side of the room.  She felt the blood rush to her head as her long, dark curls fell loose from the pony that finally gave up holding her mane at some point during her fight with the punching bag.  Meg’s hair was so long, it lightly dusted the floor as she hung. 

She didn’t care. 

She was surrounded by predawn darkness.  She never did turn on the lights
,
instead allowing the moonlight to cast shadows in the room to match those in her heart.  Slowly, Meg tightened her abdominal muscles and pulled herself up—exhaling as she moved perpendicular with the ground five feet below. 

Images of her blood-filled, recurring nightmares forced themselves into her mental picture of Creed—now his face was drenched in the remnants of Williams’ victims.  This time she didn’t even hear herself scream in the outrage she felt boiling in her heart.

Just as slowly, Meg lowered herself until she hung again
,
and repeated the process
,
focusing on pulling up and twisting, first to the left
then right.  Up and down she pulled, willing the burn in her abdominal muscles to divert some pain from her aching heart. 

Nothing helped.

Her tears mingled with the sweat pouring down her face.  Her black latex running shorts and two black sports bras were drenched, but she didn’t stop. 

She didn’t even stop when the lights flipped on and her little brother walked in, hands on his hips.

“How long have you been up?” Alik asked.

“Pass me the ten-pound weight,” she responded, hanging upside down again.

Alik frowned, but walked to the weights, neatly organized on the rack beside the bench press.  As easily as a human carries a paper plate, Alik fingered the iron and handed it to her.  She clutched to her chest, crossed her arms over it and continued her slow crunches. 

Realizing she was in one of her moods, Alik smartly walked to the shelves and chose a jump rope from the assortment of equipment there.  He began at a moderate pace
,
watching her out of the corner of his eye.  Then his pace quickened and he kept it up for at least ten minutes before he stopped.

“You’ve done enough of these, Meg,” he said simply as he walked up to her
,
reaching his hand out to take the weight.

She scowled at him through her sweat-soaked face, but relinquished the iron and stiffly jumped down from the pole.  The backs of her knees were beet red from where they chaffed on the steel bar, but she refused to soothe them with the rubs for which they begged. She didn’t even meet her brother’s eyes.  Meg felt she deserved no comfort.

Instead, she walked to the equipment shelf and found her jump rope.  She fell into the rhythm easily, mixing up the pace with one foot, then two feet hops, double whips and knees up. 

Alik moved on to the bench press.  He made sure he had his nine-hundred pounds then called to Meg as he lay back and locked his hands on the bar, “Meg, spot me?”

She clenched her teeth, angry that he knew she wouldn’t let him work with that much weight without a spotter and would have to stop
her
self-inflicted punishment to stand behind him, ready to help him if he needed it.

With a huff, Meg stopped jumping, wrapped the rope around the wooden handles and walked to him.  His thick shoulders tightened with the weight as he pushed the bar up and off the supports, low
er
ing it slowly toward his massive chest, before pushing it up—extending his arms.  As she stood ready to help, her brain wouldn’t stop its self-inflicted punishment just because her body did.  Alik’s physique had been changing more over the last two months so he really was looking even more like his half brother, Creed.  Seeing echoes of Creed in Alik was very unsettling. 

After five sets of seven, Alik replaced the barbell into its supports and said, “I think I wanna try for more.  Would you put fifteen more on each side?”

She shrugged and walked to the rack, selecting the weights, slipping them onto the barbell and locking them all into place.  Meg briefly worried
if
this was too much, but didn’t say anything.  If anyone could handle this much weight, it was Alik. 

At least someone could be a real hero and not Excruciating
ly
Emotional Girl like stupid me
.
Meg resumed her assault on her bottom lip.

She watched her brother wipe his hands dry, then wipe the bar before laying back and situating himself on the bench just right.  He locked his thick hands on the shiny metal bar and pushed up, testing the feel of the additional weight.  His blue eyes flashed in physical and mental concentration.  He lowered the bar to his chest.  As his arms began to push the massive amount of weight they quivered slightly, but he didn’t stop or call out for help.  She was poised and ready to help shoulder the burden if he gave the slightest indication that it was too much, but he never did.  He just kept lowering and pressing the weights for a set of ten before moving to replace the bar.  Meg helped him slip the bar into its supports not because he looked as if he needed help, but because she couldn’t just stand by watching him struggle anymore.

Alik took several deep breaths, before speaking.  “Why did you help me put the bar back?”

She shrugged, still not ready to talk.

“I was fine.  The additional thirty pounds felt great.  I just stopped so I didn’t overdo it.”

She walked away and grabbed him a bottle of water from the old fridge they found at a garage sale soon after buying this ranch nearly two months ago.  The refrigerator was ugly on the outside, but after Evan rigged it, it ran like new.  Alik was sitting up on the bench by the time she walked back to him with the ice-cold drink.  He took it and popped the lid off before handing it back to Meg.  “You need to drink this, Meg.  I’ll get another after I see you drink half.”  He stared pointedly at the bottle he held out to her.

Meg didn’t feel as if she deserved cool water.

She didn’t feel as if she deserved to speak, or eat or have clean clothes.  She was hanging on to her sanity with her splitting fingernails and right about now, Meg was wondering how blissful it would feel to just let go.

Alik was still breathing pretty hard.  Sweat was pouring down his neck and chest.  The whisk-away T-shirt couldn’t keep up with the fluids he was losing.  He was going to get dehydrated.  She could feel his thirst.  She wanted him to drink the damn water.

He knew what he was doing.  He knew Meg wouldn’t let him hurt himself, so he was forcing her to take care of herself before he would take care of his needs.

Huffing angrily, she yanked the bottle from his outstretched hands, splashing some crystal fluid onto the brown dirt between our feet.  Putting the plastic to her lips, she tossed her head back, guzzled deeply, making Alik watch her swallow before stopping and wiping her mouth with the back of
her
hand.  Meg’s stomach cramped painfully at the icy onslaught, but was glad for the ache.

Nodding, Alik went to retrieve his own bottle of water, opened it and sipped thoughtfully. 

“So why did you spot me when I didn’t signal the need for help?”

Peeling the label off the bottle in her hands, she only offered a shrug.

“You don’t like to see me struggle, do you?”

Meg said nothing.

“You don’t want anyone you love to struggle, and you’ll do anything you can to help them—to take away their pain, even if it means you take it on for them.”

She set the half-empty bottle down on a fold out table that held clean towels and turned her back to Alik “Meg, you helped spot me because you were worried I was struggling.  You only caved and drank the water because I threatened not to drink until you did.”

Meg didn’t know what he expected her to say.  “Great, sense.  Your powers of perception demonstrate your profound wisdom,” she bit, angry with him for figuring her out so easily.   

“Why do you think it’s any different for the people who care about you?  When Evan, Cole and I see you struggle, we want to help you,” he said calmly. 

“You can’t.  We’ve been over this before, Alik.  No one can help me.  I’m going to just have to learn to live with this,” She motioned to her head. 

“The nightmares, how often are you having them?” Alik was studying her face, so she turned away.  She knew it was no use.  He already scrutinized the dark circles under her eyes, the gaunt hollows of her cheekbones, the shakes she could not control in her formerly steady hands. 

Meg felt the anger simmer and shift to desperation.  Staring down at her dusty running shoes, she gave in.  “It would be easier to count the handful of nights I
haven’t
had them.”

“You’re not eating enough, or drinking enough fluids.  You’re not able to sleep.  Even when you’re up, you look like you’re lost in a walking nightmare,” Alik shook his head, worry filling his eyes.

“And you’re running miles by yourself in the middle of the night and working out like you’re training for the Iditarod.  The family is talking about staging an intervention, Meg.  You look strung out; something’s gotta give,” he said with sincerity barely disguising the murky fear beneath.

“What do you want me to do, Alik?”  Meg felt her eyes sting.  She was too dehydrated to cry and she was frustrated to know her efforts to hide pain had been futile. 

Her family was on to her.

“I want you to talk to us and let us help you.  We’ll figure something out.  We’re your family, Meg.  We’re here to share your burden.”

She slumped, exhausted, in one of the metal fold-out chairs nearby and breathed the earthy smell of the barn.  Her fingernails were chewed to bloody half moons.  She stared at them for a moment before speaking.  “Maybe after I clean up and try to take a nap.  I can’t talk right now.  I’m too,” she gulped still staring at
her
raw, shaking fingers, “I’m too messed up right now.”

Meg stood slowly and limped toward the door.  Alik didn’t try to stop
her
, but she could feel his worry wrap
around
like mist.