12. Jeremiah

Chapter 12

Jeremiah

I shut my bedroom door behind me and lean against the wood separating us now. My breath comes fast and heavy, my fists clenched so hard my knuckles turn white.

I shake out my hands before knocking my knuckles against the door.

Once.

Pause.

One, two, three, four times.

Pause.

One, two, and the final knock.

One. Four. Three. A thing I saw once scribbled in Oakley's journal after her fascination with 90s movies.

I bound down the stairs, my feet pounding against the hardwood. In the living room, Penn is still on the couch, absorbed in his phone. He looks up as I approach, one eyebrow raised.

"Keep an eye on her." I say, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. "Don't let her step outside. If she so much as tries, call me."

Penn raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Why yes, Jeremiah, since you asked so nicely instead of demanded, I would love to have a fucking bunny sleepover as if I don't have shit to fuckin' do."

"Fuck off, Penn. Just do this for me aight," I snap back, not in the mood for his games. My hands are already itching for something to hit.

"Okay, but what am I your personal hostage negotiator? Do I get a badge and little mount me hat like the wack ass sheriff's wear?"

"I'm not fucking around, Penn." I step closer, invading his space.

"Chill, brother," he smirks, the sly grin never reaching his hazel eyes. "Oakley's safe with me. Go punch some sense into yourself or whatever you pretty boys do."

Ignoring his jab, I grab the keys to my bike and head for the door, desperate for an outlet. The echo of the front door and Penn's insane cackles follow me as the cool night air slaps me across the face, trying to soothe the heat itching to escape from underneath my skin.

I straddle my bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The vibrations travel up my legs, a familiar sensation that usually brings me a semblance of calm. Not tonight. As I speed toward the boxing gym right off campus, the wind whips around me, but it does not offer me a reprieve from anything that's bothering me.

The gym's neon sign flickers as I pull up and throw down my kickstand. Removing my helmet, I set it on the tank and just stare at the brick building before me. A place where pain is expected, even welcomed. The gym is almost a dive, reeking of sweat and blood, but right now, it smells like fucking redemption. I push open the door, the sound of fists slamming into bags and grunts of exertion greeting me like a twisted lullaby.

The gym is surprisingly empty right now compared to usual. I clock just a few guys and squinting my eyes I see a woman in the far corner.

"Blackwood!" someone calls out, but I don't even bother looking up. They're just background noise. I'm here for one thing only—to drown out the chaos in my skull with the pure, straightforward pain of physical exertion.

I make a beeline for the heavy bags, my hands already curling into fists. I don't bother with gloves or wraps. I want to feel the impact. I want the pain.

I take a swing, channeling every ounce of my anger into the blow. The bag moves wildly; the chains rattling with the force. But it's not enough. It's never enough. I hit it again and again, grunting with each impact. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

Fucking Royce—where the hell is he? I'll beat the fucking shit out of him too for not protecting Oakley like he should have. She was off limits to me because of him, and he didn't do his fucking job.

I throw my first punch hard enough to rattle my knuckles, the impact a kiss against leather. "That's for not being there," I hiss through clenched teeth. Another hit, harder, faster.

My fists are already clenched, knuckles white, as I imagine the faces of those who've dared to hurt Oakley. Me. Her brother. The sick fuck who I'm going to castrate. They're going to regret ever crossing paths with her—with me. Because when it comes to that girl, I don't play by any rules. I write them. And right now, the first rule is to let the beast inside me loose. Let it wreak havoc until there's nothing left but the wild, unrestrained parts of who we are meant to be.

The sound of footsteps behind me breaks my concentration. I whirl around, fists raised, ready for a fight.

A figure emerges from the shadows, a cocky grin plastered on his face. He's young, probably a freshman, with the kind of swagger that comes from being too dumb to know better.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, sauntering closer. "If it isn't the Jeremiah Blackwood. Looks like you've been going at that bag pretty hard. Tired yourself out yet?" Definitely a freshman who's heard my name and thinks he's going to be the jackass to finally take down a Blackwood.

I don't answer, just watch him warily. He's muscular, I'll give him that, but he's no match for me. Not with the rage coursing through my veins.

He takes my silence as an invitation, circling me like a shark. "You know, I've always wanted to take on a Blackwood." I roll my eyes, but he keeps talking. "See what all the fuss is about? And here you are, all tuckered out from beating up a defenseless bag."

A harsh laugh escapes my throat. "Trust me, kid. You don't want any part of this."

But he just smirks, rolling his shoulders back. "Oh, I think I do. In fact, I insist."

He lunges at me then, throwing a wild punch that I easily dodge. He's fast, I'll give him that, but he's sloppy. Untrained. I could end this in seconds if I wanted to.

But I don't want to. I want to make him hurt. I want to make someone bleed for what happened to Oakley. And this arrogant prick just volunteered.

"Hope you can keep up," he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet like this is some sort of game .

"Keep up?" I echo, stepping into his space again, my voice low and dangerous. "Try not to drown."

I let him come at me again, his fists flying in a flurry of motion. I block each blow effortlessly, toying with him. Let him think he has a chance. Let him taste the false hope of victory.

And then I strike, a vicious uppercut that snaps his head back. He staggers, dazed, and I press my advantage. A jab to the ribs. A hook to the jaw. Each impact sends a jolt of satisfaction through me, the beast inside me roaring its approval.

He's on the ropes now of the ring we didn't even get a chance to step into, barely standing. One more hit and he'll go down. I raise my fist, ready to end it when he comes at me again. I sidestep, feeling the air shift where my head was just a moment ago.

"Is that all you've got?" I growl, the taste of violence alive on my tongue.

His eyes narrow, and he comes at me again, throwing combinations that might impress someone who has more to lose than I do. But not me. I block, I weave.

"Come on, Blackwood, show me—" His words shatter against my fist, connecting with his jaw, the sound echoing off the high ceilings like a siren call.

"Showing enough for you, now?" I spit out, my knuckles screaming because this fucking kid is too goddamn cocky for his own good.

He tries to rally, to summon some hidden reserve, but it's useless.

"Fuck," he gasps, staggering back. His guard drops. Rookie mistake.

"Language," I tease with a smirk, even though my blood sings with the same profanity. I advance, and he's flailing now, drowning in the deep end.

My foot arcs through the air. It connects against his side, and he folds like a bad poker hand, hitting the floor with a thud that vibrates through the soles of my shoes.

"Lesson's over," I announce, my chest heaving, my fists still hungry for more. But it's not satisfaction I feel—it's emptiness, because no amount of fighting here can put a fucking band aid on what I actually need to be doing.

I want to protect her, to claim her, to make sure she's never marked by anyone's hands but mine. And God help anyone who stands in my way.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder, yanking me back. "Enough, Blackwood."

I whirl around, ready to unleash my fury on whoever dared to fucking touch me. But I falter when I see who it is.

Declan Reed. The top MMA fighter at St. Charles. He's not someone to mess with, even for me.

"Let it go, man," Declan says, his grip on my shoulder tightening. "You've made your point."

I glance back at my opponent, who's slumped on the mat, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. The sight jolts me back to reality. Fuck. I nearly killed him.

I shrug off Declan's hand and step away from the ring, my chest heaving. The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, making my hands shake.

"I just…I needed to blow off some steam," I mutter, not meeting Declan's eyes. "He ran his damn mouth and got exactly what he asked for."

Declan snorts. "Yeah, well, next time maybe don't do that shit in front of people who can snitch. Bad form, bro. "

I nod, because he's right. I let my anger get the best of me. It's a mistake I can't afford to make again.

Declan's got that look. You know, the one that says he's seen too many guys like me lose it over less.

"Nice right hook," Declan drawls, leaning against the ropes with all the casual arrogance of a king in his court. "Though I've heard pillow talk that's less aggressive."

"Then you're doing it wrong," I snap back, the sarcasm thick in my voice. My knuckles ache, longing to feel flesh give way beneath them again. Anything to silence the roar in my head.

"Or maybe I just choose better company." He arches an eyebrow, unimpressed by my glare.

"Better than your hand?" My voice is brittle, almost as fractured as my self-control.

"Touché," he chuckles, pushing off the ropes and signaling to a group of rookies gaping from the doorway. "Get in here! Clean-up on aisle four."

The rookies scramble forward, hesitant glances tossed my way like they're waiting for the next round of fireworks. The poor bastard I thrashed is still sprawled on the floor, groaning like a ghost condemned to haunt this gym.

"Make sure he doesn't choke on his own spit," I toss at them, trying to reign in the hurricane I've become. "I'm gonna head out before my brother fucks with what's mine."

"Watch yourself, Blackwood," Declan warns, releasing me but not dropping his guard. "Obsession makes for sloppy fighting."

"Thanks for the tip," I say, my voice laced with sarcasm as thick as the bloodlust that still hums beneath my skin.

"Anytime," he replies, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he steps away, leaving me to gather the shattered pieces of control I'd tossed aside the moment my fists started flying.

I grab my stuff and head for the door, my mind already racing ahead. I need to find out who hurt Oakley. I need to keep her safe.

And God help anyone who gets in my way.

I slam the gym door open, the cool night air hitting my sweat-slicked skin. The parking lot is empty, just a few scattered cars glinting under the streetlights. I pause for a moment, trying to get my bearings, my mind still reeling from the fight.

Pulling out my phone, I shoot a quick text to Ramsey.

Need you to dig into Oakley's life. Find out everything that's happened since I last saw her. Leave no stone unturned.

The response is immediate.

Rams

On it. I'll hit you back when I've got something.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, my jaw clenching. Whoever hurt Oakley, they're going to pay. I'll make damn sure of that.

I'm halfway to my bike when I hear footsteps behind me. I whirl around, fists clenched, ready for another fight. But it's just Declan, his hands raised in mock surrender.

"Easy, killer," he says, his tone dry. "Just wanted to make sure you weren't going to do anything stupid."

I scowl at him. "Like what?"

"Like going after whoever roughed up your girl." He gives me a knowing look. "I've seen that look before, man. The one that says you're out for blood, and only one thing can make a man look like that."

I don't bother denying it. "She's not just some girl. She's…" I trail off and glare at him before finishing, "mine. She's fucking mine." I give him a terse nod, then turn back to my bike. "I gotta go. I'm needed elsewhere."

"Just remember what I said," Declan calls after me. "Be smart. Don't let your anger make you stupid."

I wave a hand in acknowledgment, then start my bike before peeling out of the parking lot.

I don't go straight back to the house. Instead, I ride around town, letting my bike take me in and out of the city limits while I try and unpack and repack everything. Trying to compartmentalize so I can get my fucking shit together.

I glance down at my gas gauge and notice it's just above the E, so I turn around and head back.

I pull up to the house, tires crunching on the gravel driveway. The engine's barely off before I'm swinging myself off the bike.

Penn's waiting for me on the porch, flipping his lighter open and closed, his expression wary. "She's still here," he says, answering my unspoken question. "Hasn't tried to leave."

I nod, brushing past him into the house. "Then I guess you did your job."

He rolls his eyes. "You got it, boss."

I ignore the sarcasm in his voice, throwing over my shoulder, "Don't start any fucking fires tonight. I'm tired," before taking the stairs two at a time. I just need to lay eyes on her, make sure she's actually still here .

I quietly open my bedroom door and there she is, curled up in the middle of my bed, under my blankets.

Exactly where she fucking belongs.