Page 17 of Brutal Reign
At least I’ve got a killer playlist for company. The familiar tunes playing through my earbuds make this torture slightly more bearable, but my legs ache and my lungs burn. I nearly weep with relief when I finally see the squad complex come into view through the trees ahead. My pace slows to a walk as I bring my hands up to rest on my head, trying to compose myselfbefore returning to the barracks. Steadying my breathing, I fix my eyes on the gate ahead, giving myself a mental pep talk.
You did it. You’re almost there.
Though if training today consists of any form of cardio, I might punch someone. My energy reserves are already zapped from that pathetic run I just attempted. Theoretically, each morning run should get a little easier, but right now I’m seriously reconsidering how badly I want to join the squad.
Lucky for me, there’s a reminder walking toward the gate from the parking lot. I grind to a halt as soon as I see my dad, blinking to make sure the sight of him isn’t a mirage.
“What are you doing here?” I pant as I pivot to walk in his direction, yanking my earbuds out.
His lips curve down in a frown as he strides to meet me halfway, gaze dropping to take in my sweat-drenched attire. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
I fold my arms over my sports bra defensively. “Because I was out for a run.”
“You can’t run in a shirt?” He cocks a judgmental brow, my inner wolf rearing up in defiance.
“It’s hot as fuck out here, Dad!” I sigh exasperatedly. “Seriously, did you come all the way up here to hassle me about what I’m wearing?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in the ghost of a smile. “No, I came to check in on my little girl,” he replies smoothly.
“Could’ve called and saved yourself the trip.”
He tilts his head in consideration, amusement sparking in his hazel eyes that are so similar to my own. Then he stuffs a hand into the pocket of his jeans, fishing out a familiar set of keys and jingling them in the air. “But then I wouldn’t have brought your bike.”
My heart stutters in my chest as my eyes fly wide, mouth falling open. “You fixed it?!” I squeal, rushing forward to make a grab for the keys.
“Ah, ah,” he tuts, holding them up over his head, out of my reach. “How ‘bout athank you, Dad, love you, Dad…”
I rock back on a heel, frowning. “Thank you, Dad,” I grind out, extending a palm in demand. “Love you, Dad.”
“I’ll put on a shirt, Dad?”he prompts.
I roll my eyes, scoffing. “Seriously?”
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest as he drops the keys into my waiting palm, excitement spearing through me the second I close my hand around them. Forgetting how sweaty I am, I lunge forward to throw my arms around his middle, squeezing him tight. “Seriously, thank you,” I whisper, grinning from ear to ear.
He clearly doesn’t give a shit that I’m a sweaty mess, because he hugs me right back, even pressing a kiss to my damp hair. “Of course, kiddo,” he murmurs. “I knew you’d be missing it.”
For as much as my dad and I don’t see eye to eye on most things, motorcycles have always been our common ground. He took me for rides on the back of his when I was little, and as soon as I expressed interest in learning how to drive one myself, he taught me. Then he passed his bike down to me. It’s a relic and requires a lot of TLC, but I love it. I was beside myself when a seal on the carburetor went out the day before I had to report to training camp, but he promised he’d fix it, and he came through.
Guess I can forgive him showing up here to check on me since he brought my bike.
“So how’s training camp going?” Dad asks as we unwind our arms from around one another and take a step back.
“Fine,” I lie.
He sees right through it, narrowing his eyes on me suspiciously. “The squad leaders giving you trouble?”
“No, Dad.”
“The other recruits?”
“Dad!” I groan, throwing my head back.
I know the man means well, but he’s too damn overprotective. I have no doubt that if I told him someone was giving me a hard time, he’d storm into the squad complex to take matters into his own hands and leave a path of destruction in his wake. One I’d need to clean up. As well-intentioned as my father might be, he needs to let me fight my own battles, especially if I’m going to be Alpha one day. He won’t always be around to vanquish my enemies for me.
“I said it’s fine, okay?” I reiterate, giving him a hard look. “I’m just settling in, but everything’s been great so far. There’s no need for you to worry.”
He continues eyeing me suspiciously, the muscle in his jaw ticking beneath his close-cropped beard. It’s flecked with grey, and Mom always jokes that it didn’t start going grey until I hit puberty. I told her there’s probably a grey hair for every guy he’s warned to keep away from me, which would be funnier if it wasn’t true.