Page 29 of The Clinch
We take Bedford down toward the river, June humidity thick enough to taste. No one’s out yet except a dog walker and a couple delivery guys. The city is half-asleep, still deciding who it wants to be today.
Liz jogs a few steps ahead of me, earbuds in, hair bouncing heavy down her back. The ink on her thigh—fast, broken wing lines—flashes with every stride.
“You’re not going to tie your hair up?” I call after her.
She just laughs. “I’m good.”
I don’t get it, but I let it go.
She doesn’t stretch again once we hit the park entrance. Just shakes out her legs, touches her toes once. Warm, loose, ready.
I force myself to push away where my mind goes and follow.
We hit the paved path by the water, the skyline hazy across the river. Domino Park is quiet, just the steady sound of our feet on pavement.
“Start slow,” I say. “Ease into it. I’ll match you.”
She glances over, amused. “Sure, Carver. Thanks for the tip.”
We fall into an easy jog. I stay half a step behind because apparently I like making problems for myself at five in the morning.
Her stride is smooth. Too smooth. Hips stable, foot strike clean, arms close to her ribs. No wasted motion. Every muscle fires in sequence.
We go two blocks like that. Warm-up territory. Then, without a warning or a glance, the air shifts.
One second she’s beside me. Next, she’s a blur of legs and hair slicing up the path.
When she bursts forward, the wing on her thigh stretches, spreads, suddenly looking exactly like what it is.
Wings in flight.
“What the—” I mutter, then push off hard.
She’s twenty feet ahead before my feet even catch the angle. I lengthen my stride, feel the burn rip through my hamstrings as I go after her.
She doesn’t look back.
Not once.
She’s full force, full speed, eating the pavement. Her hair streams behind her like a banner, pulled straight by the wind.
Every instinct I have—fighter, male, animal—fires at once.
Chase. Catch. Claim.
The word “mine”lands in my chest before I can stop it.
I run harder.
This isn’t leftover fight adrenaline; it’s clean, directional, and it locks onto her.
I don’t think about pace. I don’t think about the route. I don’t think about what I’ll do when I reach her.
That part hasn’t even formed yet.
All I know is movement. Her body ahead of me. Mine answering. The need to close the gap lives in my legs and teeth—raw and uncomplicated. No plan, no logic, no finish line. Just chase.
She runs. I follow. Everything else comes after.
