After standing in that wretched bedroom for five minutes, desperately trying to regain control, I opened the door and walked away. My movements toward the west side cellar door were filled with a predatory stillness, yet also with determination.
As I approached, a voice asked me, "Number one?"
This question, unlike previous ones, was laced with worry and love, creating a stark contrast to what had just transpired.
"Nothing, Damon. I am unavailable for the foreseeable future. I'll let you know when I'm back. I'm putting the hive down, too," I replied to Number Two, who was, in fact, the one caring and loving me, despite him being very much like Number One.
"Bullshit! Something happened, tell me," another voice demanded, even more forcefully.
I turned to Number Five, my expression as neutral as I could manage, attempting to curb my rage from erupting.
Number Two then said, "I'll go check on the kids," directing his words to Number Five, who simply nodded.
It was clear that a telepathic discussion had just occurred.
Number Five then stated, "I won't go away. You show me. You tell me. You know, this is me, and I'm not backing down."
He had reverted once again to the version of himself I knew from our best times in England centuries ago—the one who had taught me to be a lapdog and who had always demanded to know if anything was wrong.
"Maybe the timing isn't right for this sort of thing; my rage is about to..." I started to say, but before I could finish, he interrupted. "Boil over? Yeah, that's kind of obvious. But why? Show me—right fucking now!"
He stepped closer, grabbing me by the shoulders and looking deep into my eyes, searching for what was wrong.
"Believe me, I'm not going anywhere. Start talking!" he urged.
I let him see the entirety of our argument, and he tensed like a live wire, locking eyes with me.
"Come on, let's go. I'm coming too; I need this too," he said.
I countered, "I'm not willing to fight you. I need to rage by myself."
As I walked toward the cellar door, his voice softened beside me. "No fights, but competition. I know your room; there are a few measuring devices. Let's see which one wins while we let our rage out."
I stopped, my hand already on the doorknob, and looked at him almost contemplatively. "How come you're such a freaking perfect version, while number one is such a shithead? I mean, you're very similar to him, but still..."
"That's because I choose, baby. You're my one and only. With you, I want to do better. You see, despite being immortal and really old, time has always been something we wasted. No more. I want moments with you—in the bad and the good. For me, those wedding vows mean so much more with you than with Mariella. To me, she's just one of those pussies I wasted my time on. You make me want to do better, to show you I've got you, shield you, help you—and yeah, rage with you—because he was truly a dickweed, and there's no excuse. It wasn't just jealousy... or maybe it was. What was he jealous of?"
Damon's ice-cold eyes looked deeply into my dark blue ones. I opened the door, feeling a bit of the same pressure but still needing to let it out. Number one, calling me a whore made me want to slam my fist into the wall right then and there—it just popped into my mind.
I took a breath and started down the stairs, my movements almost automatic as a large portion of my willpower was now focused on controlling my rage. I was barely holding on, realizing this was the consequence of learning to react.
Yet, despite the struggle, reacting felt better than suppressing my emotions, better than convincing myself it was all my fault and moving on. No, that wouldn't happen anymore. The cool, slightly musty smell of concrete greeted us as we finally reached the lowest level.
"I've never been here," Number Five muttered, looking around as we walked between machines and lines, a stark contrast to the upper levels of our home.
"Are these our air conditioning and support machines? Do you know how to fix them if they broke?" he asked, his voice tinged with awe.
My answer was terse: "Adam and Charles know. They took care of most of these and made sure we had all the spare parts needed. It's not my problem, but since there was extra space, Magnum made my special room just in case of situations like this. He knows me too well. He also told Wulfe and the others to ensure I keep feeling, keep reacting, as I have a place for it."
Number Five then spoke in a rather dark voice, "It's not just yours, baby. I need this too, not just for solidarity, but I have a need to pound something into pieces as well. I know some of the Salvatores are Pavlovian conditioned to 'fuck' their issues with Mariella, but when that doesn't help, sex should be about pleasure, chasing a high, not a way to unload your demons."
I glanced at him, surprised by his perceptiveness. He had a knack for seeing what others missed, and this particular insight had honestly eluded me.
"That's a good point," I admitted. "You surprise me again. You're truly unique; you see what others cannot or refuse to see. But then, as I consider what you just said, it makes so much sense why things are so twisted between Number One and me. I just can't give him what he expects, because he learned what sex is with Mariella, and I'm not Dr. Phil."
This made Number Five smirk darkly. "One learns to notice things when one is helpless to act," he said. "And yeah, you're not Dr. Phil. You're too brash for it. If you were a psychiatrist or psychologist, you'd probably tell your clients to pull themselves together and stop being pissants."
I nodded, and we finally reached a heavy white metal door, resembling something from a submarine or an airplane. I opened the panel, entered my code, and the door clicked and hissed as I pulled it open, allowing Number Five to enter as the lights flicked on automatically.
The space was immense, occupying nearly a third of our new wing, yet it was also incredibly useful. Soundproofed walls, lined with padding, surrounded the room, from which five special gel-filled punching bags hung. Measuring equipment was also present, as this served as my training room whenever I wanted to push myself.
Pressure-plated mats covered most of the floor, and all data—our gait, weight distribution—would be logged. A sophisticated AI would then compile lengthy, detailed reports on our performances.
Displays adorned the walls, marking five distinct stations. I had requested Magnum create several of these, knowing that at least Lepard, and perhaps even Adam and Charles, struggled with their temperaments. Therefore, having multiple stations was beneficial.
Naturally, our baseline statistics were already in the system, and Magnum had ensured the machines understood my peak performance. Since he wouldn't be present for this event, these machines would be the ones to inform me just how sloppy I was.
Number Five entered, taking it all in, and I could feel his rage beginning to bubble.
He said to me, "Nice setup. Okay, let's compete. Let it all out, and then we'll compare once we're done. Which one of us did better, right?"
He didn't wait for my reply, walking over to one of the machines. He slammed his palm onto a monitor, and soon, one of the punching bags lit up, indicating his station.
I repeated his action, finding my own station. Then, I let it all out. I unleashed everything, not bothering to change my clothes or holding back. I had shut down the hive to prevent my rage from leaking in there, but here, I let it flow freely.
As Number Five was already pounding and kicking his bag, he wasn't particularly interested in consuming my rage. This was unusual, as Number One and a few others always sought a meal whenever I had a rage outbreak, but this one simply wasn't interested. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was the one meant for me.
My fist struck the sack, yet I felt no pain. There were no dressings, no covers, only my skin against the sack's surface. It absorbed my blows, measured them, and transformed them into data – a white-hot power. My rage flooded my veins, washing away everything.
I was no longer a creature of love, but a creature of rage, for that was all that remained. There was no "Number Five," only this power churning within me, in my veins. I wasn't yet dealing with the actual issue, but this was my reaction.
It had taken an immense amount of time to reach this point, where I could finally react quickly and let everything out, instead of bottling it up, trying to twist and suppress my feelings, and eventually finding the reason behind what had happened. No more. I refused it right then and there, shouldering the blame, and I let my reaction come out. I let myself burn.
Well, literally too, as my rage raised my already high temperature of 104°F to 106°F, or a bit more if I really went for it. So, I was one damn hot chick, literally. I kicked and screamed, I just let all of my hurt and pain out.
Why, the fuck, could "Number One" not be better? Why did he have to be such a stupid, weak excuse of a man when I had so much more? And how dare he blame me for that? Our bond was my fault – it takes two to tango.
All of my rage-filled ideas just popped into my mind, empowering my hits, kicks, and punches. I wasn't even trying to be neat, not trying to be at my best. And, right fucking now, it hardly mattered if "Number Five" was going to win. Let him.
I had, one more time, flown too close to the sun and burned my wings. This time, instead of pain, which would surely come later, my rage was the first reaction. And deep down, it actually surprised me too. Maybe I was changing, and maybe this was a healthier way to deal with this than blowing my mental mess all over the place. I thought, as I darkly considered it, that it was not overruled, not if I knew myself.
A white-hot flood surged through my veins, and fragments of our argument resurfaced, each one igniting a fresh wave of rage. This made the burning hotter, fiercer. "Dickweed," what that number one, was once again. It was the only thought in my mind, and I was unsure if I wanted to interact with him anytime soon. I hadn't made any plans; I was simply overwhelmed by rage.
How dare he attack me like that? How dare he call me names? How dare he once again strike where it hurts the most? How dare he rip apart everything dear to me again? How dare he even exist? Each damn sentence caused my rage to flood out, prompting me to scream, grunt, erupt, and hit the bag.
I took it all, not even trying to perform at my best, just trying to smash this damn, stupid bag into pieces, to make it yield, even though it seemed unbreakable. But no, frustration, hot and hard, coiled in my belly, fueling my rage. Love was out of the question now; perhaps someday, but not right now. I was furious.
If there had been a semi-stranger or a complete stranger here, I would have killed them. I had crossed a line with my rage, but I was aiming at the damn bag, trying to beat it into pulp instead of plunging my hand into someone and pulling something out, as I usually did when my rage was this intense.
But then, dark cursing, powerful kicks, and roars of pure unadulterated rage made me finally notice "Number Five" again. And maybe, just maybe, I really had someone who wouldn't let me spiral out of control into a pit of self-despair after this first and worst wave of rage had passed.
Maybe my guys would make sure the sun was shining, and there was good in the world. No more distress syndrome is hitting me with full force, and I am isolating my feelings. But maybe there truly was a support system full of love and care for me, already there. All I had to do was trust. But that was one damn big ask for me.