“Again,” I said, barely catching my breath.
Sweat had already soaked through my training shirt and dripped from my brow, but I didn’t care. I wanted—no, needed—to keep moving. This was the only thing that kept me sane lately. If I trained hard enough, the exhaustion would swallow my thoughts whole. I wouldn’t have time to cry. Wouldn’t have time to remember.
For the past two weeks, this was how I survived.
I didn’t want to dwell on the past. On the child I lost before I ever got the chance to hold him. On the man who gave me that child and then walked away. None of it helped me breathe. But training? That helped me forget.
“Aria,” Dad called out, a note of warning in his voice.
“Come on, Dad,” I groaned, bending my knees and bracing into a stance. My muscles ached, but my spirit screa
