The Gender Game 2 by Bella Forrest (positive books to read txt) 📗

trust Viggo, but even that was uncertain. Almost as uncertain as my feelings toward him, and his toward me.

My eyes darted around the common room. I needed something, anything, to vent my wrath on. My gaze came to rest on a punching bag off in one corner of the room. This corner was clearly designated for fitness, given the weights and machines scattered around. However, I only had eyes for that punching bag.

Without thinking about it, I sprung myself at it, my body tense as a coil ready to be released. I planted a kick against it so hard that it started to swing on the chain that supported it. I landed, and caught it, throwing my arms around it in a bear hug to pull it to a stop.

Once it had settled, I began to punch, kick, and elbow it with a vengeance. My hands were unprotected, but if there was any pain in my knuckles hitting the rough fabric, I didn’t notice.

I kept hitting it over and over and over again. There was something satisfying about each thudding strike against the bag. I could feel it resonating through my limbs as I struck it. Each hit was a visceral feeling of release, a promise of freedom, a wealth of control that I had been sorely lacking.

I knew why I was upset—I didn’t need to psychoanalyze myself. I was doomed. A dead girl who didn’t have enough sense to lie down and accept it. I had fought and struggled and pushed and survived in The Green, only to have the people of this world find me guilty—just so they could have a face to vilify.

And those very same people had sent two out of the three most important people in my life to capture me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hurt the world like it had hurt me. I had believed, foolishly, that if I just told the truth, I would be believed, but nobody cared about the story of a criminal.

Except for maybe Viggo. Maybe. A nauseating pit in my stomach opened, threatening to swallow me up. If there was just one person in the world who I wanted to believe me the most, it was Viggo. I just wished he would tell me that he did.

I wished for a lot of things. Wishing was pointless, and so were tears, anger, regret, and shame. I needed to move past that.

But I couldn’t catch a break either. I had hoped that Ms. Dale would have some knowledge about the mines, but she clearly didn’t. Not that I didn’t put it past her to lie to me, but then why would she lie about something so small?

I continued to hit, shifting my stance into a purely boxing one. I threw jab after jab at the bag, mixing in hooks and uppercuts when I felt the need to see the bag move from the force of my blows.

How was I going to accomplish anything? Where was my stupid old woman who was going to guide me on this merry old adventure? Why didn’t anything ever work like the stories did?

I stopped mid punch, my fist coming to rest on the bag. I took a deep breath, and felt the rage leaving me almost as suddenly as it had appeared. I looked down at my hands—the skin over the knuckles raw and torn, blood welling up from the bigger wounds.

I shook my head, and took a few steps back. There were small blood marks all over the bag, from where I had been punching. I flexed my hands and rotated my shoulders—all habits I had developed from when I was in defense class—and sat down heavily on a couch, pressing my head into my hands and sucking in a deep breath.

This wasn’t like the stories—I wasn’t some plucky heroine on a great adventure—I was Violet Bates. A simple nobody who had broken the law, murdered two girls, and then got sent on this mission that had gotten messed up beyond recognition.

I needed to own my part in everything, and realize that my decisions had consequences from here on out. I knew what I wanted—to be free from all this, and to have my brother returned to me. I had a bartering chip—the egg. And more than that—I had a place to hide—this facility.

The first step to moving forward was to finish clearing the facility. From there, I would interrogate Ms. Dale again, and find out if she was interested in making an exchange—my brother and safe passage for the egg.

I wondered how Viggo would react to my plan. I debated not telling him, but the first step to earning back his trust was to be honest in every way that I could. If he didn’t go for it… well, too bad. It wasn’t his decision to make.

I would have to find a time to tell him. After we finished clearing the facility.

Breathing in, I stood up and began stretching. The nap I had earlier was barely putting a dent in the exhaustion I was feeling. Not to mention, I was still covered in sweat and grime and whatever else had been building up on my skin and in my hair for the past few days.

My skin crawled with the thought of all the dirt on me. A shower would make everything right again.

I turned the hatch and headed upstairs, toward the living quarters.

I reached it in ten minutes—after taking an apple break in the greenhouse—and immediately began inspecting the rooms. I had found a few things that I was reasonably sure I could fit in, and I laid them out on the bed. I had chosen a different room than the one I had slept in—if only because the fact that I had slept dirty in the bed was gross—and stepped in the shower.

It was amazing how a simple thing like a shower went unappreciated. I had missed showers. The water was instantly hot as I turned the dial over,