Wolves' Bane (The Order of the Wolf, #3)(50)
My stomach lurched and I pushed myself up, making it to the bathroom only moments before I vomited, heaving everything out of my stomach. What’s wrong with me? What did I do? Why won’t anyone love me? You’re pathetic. You’re a loser. You have nothing to give. The old childhood mantra circled in my thoughts, taking me down into the deepest pit of depression.
I lay on the cold tile of the bathroom floor for what seemed like hours. Numb. Heartbroken. Defeated. It wasn’t until I saw the bright light from the fully risen sun battling its way through the drapes that I forced myself to stand. The mirror confirmed I looked as shitty as I felt.
I splashed some water on my face, all the while replaying the night before. What had I done to upset him? Where had he gone so early in the morning? The only thing down in the direction that he had come from was Kelly’s room.
I shook my head as I braced myself against the countertop. He’d left me twice. His words confirmed what I didn’t want to admit. He used my body, got satisfaction, but wanted nothing more, just as he had warned. No attachments. No possibility of love. Why are you so surprised? He didn’t want to fall victim to his emotions, or be ruled by his heart. He didn’t want to own up to the feeling that the bond created. He was doing this on purpose, keeping me at a distance so he didn’t develop feelings for me.
Well, I wouldn’t go along with that. I raised my head to stare at myself in the mirror, my eyes red-rimmed and my face pale. I was not some whore to be used and discarded whenever he got an itch. I would do without him if that was all he wanted. I’d already gotten what I needed from him. Power. Magic. Strength.
Overlaying my anguish was a new feeling—not quite anger, but close. It was a feeling of empowerment. I wasn’t the little girl sobbing because my mother had, once again, passed out in her own vomit on the kitchen floor, having been too drunk to even cook dinner or acknowledge my existence. I wasn’t the same Morgan who’d cried myself to sleep for weeks after Jimmy had betrayed me, after he’d used me the same way Cal had used me. No, I wasn’t that girl anymore.
I was a Huntress. Powerful, strong. And there was one man who did want me around. Lance was waiting for me in the training room and I wouldn’t disappoint him. I would let my grief and my anger fuel my training. I would use it to kick the ever-living shit out of that werewolf bastard, and then I would leave this f*cked-up place behind me. I didn’t need any man, despite what the legacy demanded. I hadn’t taken any vows to the Order and I didn’t need to abide by their laws.
With newfound determination, I quickly changed into my training clothes and made my way downstairs. To hell with Cal and his reasons. If he didn’t see me as being fit to love, then he was a crazy bastard. I deserved better and if he dared to come to me again looking for a quickie, he’d better be prepared for a fight, because I was not interested in slaking his needs any longer.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Burning Times
If Lance guessed that I was in a bad mood, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he had me drilling all of the moves that he’d taught me the day before. I was amazed by how efficiently my body worked, forcing my attention away from my heartbreak while I moved through the various submission techniques I had learned.
When he handed me a sword, and I felt the strangely familiar weight resting in my palm, I knew true power. He showed me a few moves, strikes that would yield the deadliest results and then left me to explore the momentum on my own. His occasional shots of “yeah” and “that’s right” spurred me on.
I liked the odd sensation of knowing the weapons, my mind already aware of technique, stance and strikes thanks to the bond. Presumably, what Cal had said was true—whatever he had trained with, I had gained intimate knowledge of. It allowed me to move and learn quickly.
But it wasn’t until Lance handed me the twin swords that he called the sai that I truly felt as though I’d found the weapon for me. They rested in my palms like they were meant to be there, balanced perfectly for me to thrust and block without losing my momentum. I gripped the handles, one in each hand, my thumb at the juncture where the handle met the middle blade. My comfort level with the weapon had me trying all kinds of different techniques. I liked twisting it in one expert move from the upright attack position to the downward guarding position, where the blades extended along my forearms and allowed me to block incoming blows.
“That’s so odd,” Lance mused as he lowered the sword he was wielding.
He had been increasing the speed and strength of his strikes and jabs, no longer holding back when he came at me. I had successfully blocked him for the past twenty minutes, the last time trapping his sword with the yoku—one of the two prong-like extensions of the sai. My instinct had been to twist, somewhere deep in my brain recognizing that doing that would snap his blade, but I released him at the last minute with a smile. “What’s odd? That I’m so kick-ass good with these things?”
His brow was furrowed and he shrugged. “Yeah, actually, that is what is odd.”
He moved to the towel rack and yanked a clean one down. He wiped his forehead with his free hand while he eyed the sword in his other hand. “You’re making me feel like an amateur.” He tossed the towel in the laundry basket and raised his sword to me again. “This is my weapon. It’s what I train with all the time. I want my Huntress, if I ever find her, to be comfortable with a sword.”