Strike ( Book 4: Stronger Series )

4. A Final Lesson

Two weeks had gone by since my fight with Dominic, and after an excruciatingly awkward dinner with him and Darren the next day out on the patio, I was ready to move on from the incident. It was all I could do to avoid the smug look on Dominic's face as I had to force myself to sit completely straight to prevent my back from touching the chair. Although he really didn't have much to smile about. His face alone looked ten times worse than my back did.

Even though I'd received harsh backlash on my end, it didn't go unnoticed that even though Darren had sought retribution for his brother, he had also sought it on my behalf as well, and clearly, I was the favored victor in that little match even if Dominic wouldn't admit it. I chose to embrace that favor, no matter how absurd it had been achieved or conveyed.

After Dominic went back to Vegas, I'd given myself two days rest from my training, choosing to brush up on some of my language studies. I'd been dabbling in a little German and Spanish when I could. And when I felt well enough to return to my gym, I focused on stretching and running, rather than heavy lifting or combat. Within the span of a week, I was back to my usual self, my transgressions forgiven, and my mind finally at ease. The bruises would still be visible for another week because of my pale skin, but they didn't really bother me anymore.

They still bothered Darren, though. Every time he looked at me, his eyes couldn't help but linger on the faded yellow green bruise on my cheek, rekindling the guilt within my stomach. I tried to avoid him so he wouldn't have to see it. But that would only work for so long.

"Jaden," Owen called from across my paint studio. I was in the middle of finishing another finger painting of a birch tree in the winter when I looked up to acknowledge him. "He wants you in his office."

I nodded and stood, heading for the sink to clean myself off before putting away my tools and supplies. Hanging up my apron, I smoothed my black T-shirt dress down, fluffed my hair, called for Camaro, and made my way toward Darren's office.

Two guards stood on either side of the double doors, nodding at me and opening the door so I could enter. "Camaro stays," the one who opened the door for me said.

I turned back to Camaro. "Stay, pretty girl," I ordered softly, and she immediately sat back on her hind legs to wait for me. Walking forward, I left her outside as the guard closed the door behind me, the subtle click causing my stomach to knot. I didn't know why. I'd been in here a handful of times.

Darren's office was probably the size of his bedroom, the colossal space filled with a giant desk fit for a conglomerate crime lord that faced the wall of windows revealing the entire backyard and the expanse of the ocean. A long heavy mahogany table took up the space of the hardwood flooring just in front of the windows that could easily seat twelve while a seating arrangement of black leather couches, chairs, a plush burgundy rug, and a glass coffee table were set in front of the immense dark marble fireplace. The wet bar was just to the left of the fireplace. Complete with a small sink and towel rack, the crystal decanters sat on the black marble countertop, half filled with clear and brown liquids with several glass tumblers lined up for use. Shelves upon shelves of books layered the dark navy-blue walls while tiered chandeliers lit the shadows where the sun couldn't reach.

Each piece of the room had been intricately chosen and strategically placed, including the frames decorating the wall directly behind Darren's desk. He had four of my finger paintings, those he claimed to be his favorites, hung up in a row behind him so he could admire them whenever he wanted. A few of my other ones had been scattered around the house for all to see and admire. I had learned to let go of the meaning of pride a long time ago, but seeing those paintings on his wall brought a little warmth to my chest.

Darren's appreciation was a luxury I clung to.

But my paintings weren't hanging alone. They were actually accompanied by several framed photographs of me in candid shots. Three of them were me smiling as I played with Camaro, another my face serious and focused as I jogged across the beach, and another with my face relaxed as I stared off at a sunset, my hair so red from the glow of the sun it looked like goddamn fire.