Wicked Ones {bxb}

{Chapter 35 : Vendetta}

Vincent peeled himself up from cold metal, his ribs aching as he hacked out a horrid bloody taste. The wind had been knocked out of him. Yet again, he had failed to progress anywhere with Jahni. Weeks they'd been at it—hours spent on one-sided fights and Vincent felt as if he was only getting weaker. Jahni was a force to be reckoned with.

"That's enough for today." Jahni offered a hand, helping Vincent to his feet. He stumbled over himself, a dizziness daubing his sight. He steadied only when Jahni held him still by the elbow.

"Why are you wasting your time on me?" Vinny wheezed, the sharp pain in his stomach squeezing him like a girdle, "I haven't gotten better. Nothing I try seems to change anything."

"You have improved." Jahni gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, and he thought his collarbone might snap.

"How in the hell have I improved? I get my ass beat into a pulp every time."

"But you keep coming back. You are improving."

Vinny heaved a sigh and wiped the sweat from his face. With a defeat weighing heavy on his shoulders, he reclined into the seat of a lifting bench.

Jahni had taken to training him in that isolated room of his. For the most part, it was nothing more than an extra space, with a cot on one side and equipment on the other. Exercise machines, large tools, and several other items hung to the walls—but the floor was left empty, save for a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling. Vincent remembered being thrown into it a few times. Now Jahni was taking a position before the bag, ensuring that the cable was secure.

"Jahni," Vinny muttered, receiving a curious glance from the man.

Jahni worked to tie up his fists in long white cloths, taking his eyes off of Vincent as he asked, "What is it?"

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes," he answered vaguely, then he sent his fist flying into the hanging bag. The entire thing jolted from the impact, metal clinking as the chains thrashed like frenzied serpents.

Vinny watched as he sent the bag flying again. Then he inquired softly, "Using your abilities?" Jahni never spoke of himself, but he looked to Vincent from the corner of his eye and struck the bag once more.

"Yes."

Vinny thought it better to cut the prying. Instead, he sunk with a large exhalation, kneading the back of his neck. "If something happens, do you think we'd ever—"

"Need to kill someone?" Jahni asked, catching his punching bag to halt the swinging. Then he turned to Vincent. "You're not as stupid as you look," he said. "I trust you to make the right decision. Taking someone's life isn't a good option, but sometimes it is the only option. Now,"—his tone of voice changed, softened as if he was speaking to a child—"stop being an imbecile and get a drink."

Vinny nodded once over and rose to his feet. "Thanks, dad," he said with a grin.

Jahni growled, "Do not call me that. I am not your father."

Surely he wasn't, but Jahni had become somewhat of a father figure to them all. Calling him by the name seemed to antagonize and mortify him all at once, and a flustered Jahni was one of the most amusing things Vinny had come to know.

He left him to his punching bag and clenching his ribs, Vinny hobbled out of the chamber. He found his way to the others, where he lugged himself atop a stool and released a daggered breath. He was glad his training was over for the day. It was beginning to suck the life out of him.