AN: Thank you to all my reviewers, I deeply appreciate all the feed back, especially those who have constructive criticism, I'm always looking to evolve as a storyteller and you guys keep it real with me, therefor being the most help to me.

ALISON ACTUALLY: I'm so stoked you understand my reasoning, this chapter, while probably not the most exciting, goes out to you.

The song in this chapter is called LoveFuryEnergyPassion by Boy Hits Car, you might be like me and skip lyrics, cause let's be honest it's kinda annoying to read, but they will be important to the story, do with this knowledge what you wish

I think Papa still thinks of these training sessions together as lessons but the truth is I've been ready to be on my own for a long time now. I don't mention it to him though, I know a part of him wishes I was still a little girl, sitting on his lap and playing with his chains. We lift weights, work on cardio, and spar. Papa had to teach me everything on his own, how to fight, shoot, scheme, etc. It woulda been nice to have training from more then one source like Emmett received, but at least Papa is the best there is, so you won't find me lacking. I think.

"Good job, Beautiful, that's enough for today . . . Umm." Papa sits back down on the weight bench and mulls over whatever it is he wants to say.

I tell myself to give him time to get his thoughts together but the silence is killing me for some reason. It's just something about the look on his face, it doesn't sit well with me.

"Is there a reason why you still want to test my fighting skills?" I ask, tearing off the wrap from my hands. "I mean I know you can never learn enough but-"

He cuts me off, head hung low, "There's only one last lesson, well two really and . . . they're not really lessons, more like challenges, that you should have completed already, but I really didn't want to put you through them." He laughs humorlessly.

"What do you mean, Papa?" I ask softly.

"One challenge, I won't put you through. I should; I did with Emmett, but I can't do it. Call me a male chauvinist, but . . . You're my little girl, and . . . I can't do it, I'm not strong enough to see-" He abruptly stops his train of thought and starts a new one, his hands clenched in tight fists. "But the other . . . You must complete before your debut."

"Papa, I'm not following you." That's a lie, I think I know what he means but somethings blocking me from letting the reality of his words settle in my mind.

He looks up at me and smiles sadly.

"You are a woman of the mafia, Beautiful, you know what I mean."

I watch him stand and walk out of the room, but without glancing my way calls out, "Be prepared for the shooting range tomorrow night."

I still feel blocked, like I can't make the connection, not because I don't understand but because my brain doesn't want to. It's like it wants to protect itself so it's not letting me connect A-B.

I shake my head and decide to rewrap my fists. I need to release every ounce of energy I still have left. I've been given too many puzzles and too little pieces, I have school tomorrow and the last thing I need is to be kept awake tonight, over analyzing everything that's happened.

Once my fists are wrapped tight and safe I walk over to the sound system and blast my work out playlist.

I stretch out my muscles, swing my arms, twist my body and bend to touch my toes and walk over to the punching bag and begin really taking out all my aggressions. A couple death metal songs play in full but it's not enough, if anything I feel even worse.

It's not until the harsh beat of one of my favorite songs blasts from the speakers, fueling my frustrations, that I'm really able to let the fuck go.

I jump in place, loosening up further matching the beat and accompany guitar notes as they start out harsh and quick, DA DA. Then it descend and stretches, an acoustic edge highlighting the beat, repeating twice more. Then a mini climax stands alone descending again until the the beat rings out DA DA DA DA DA DA DA.

This is what I use to anticipate my first kick to the punching bag, like a drum roll.

"So fuck your rules, man!" The lead singer, Cregg Rondell, screams in quick succession four times, to start the song off. The first, I use as my cue to kick, then I begin my one, two, three punching combos. He says it a fifth time, this time actually singing, matching the melody.

"You step up,

you'll go down fast.

I've got to release all the shit

that has made up my past."

I go hard on the punching bag, my hands, although wrapped up perfectly, start to ache like a mother fucker.

The song momentarily softens.

"She's like a lost flower,

growing up through a crack,

in the bustling side walk,

moving like a river so sad."

The lead has a really unique sounding voice, raspy and almost exotic in it's edge. He's the kinda singer that enunciates in a way that the words blend together, and you sometimes have to look up the lyrics to know what he's saying; he so easy to misinterpret. That shit has always annoyed me, but i've noticed that when I look up the lyrics, I pay attention to them more, feel them completely. Small blessings hidden in hindrances.

"So hey, where we going?

Tell me, where we've gone.

Was there Love and Fury,

Energy and Pass-ion?"

The chorus repeats and I deliver ten sudden kicks on three different spots of the bag, only bending at the knee, taking advantage of the hastened beat.

I go back to my jabs, mixing and matching combos, singing along to my favorite line of the song. I'm so in the zone I can't tell if i'm alone in the gym anymore, but I hope I am, because I'm no Christina Aguilera, let me tell you.

"So go paint your face,

and proclaim thy warrior soul.

'Cause life is a brutal fight,

until we show

a shade of timelessness.

For we are all distinct

and awaiting our

Trens-cend-den-tal re-lease!"

I hug the bag to me, already tired, and hit at it feebly, some of my wild curls have escaped my ponytail and are sticking to my drenched face. I listen to the chorus repeat, but with the lyrics sung in a more suspended fashion, Rondell showing off the melody his voice can carry, until it descends again.

"So go let your soul

dance baby.

Time to free yourself at last.

Unshackle your life's spirit.

Fly away far from the past,

'Cause it's gone.

Like a lost flower

Growing with mad wind

Like a sad river who has

no end."

I gather my strength, ignore my aching legs and ready myself for my other favorite part.

"So fuck your rules man, 'cause here comes my passion."

He sings normally, the melody so sweet and rough; I forcibly kick the bag angrily at 'Passion'.

"So fuck your rules, man, 'cause here comes my love." I kick once again, even harder, at 'love', jumping in place after.

"So fuck your rules, man, here comes pure energy." I think I let out quite the battle cry with my kick at 'Energy'.

Bouncing up and down again I ready myself for my big finish.

"So fuck your rules, man, 'cause here. Comes. My. FURY."

At 'fury' I jump and twist and land the hardest kick yet, mid air, my other leg bent under me, making the heavy bag swing uncontrollably.

With that last hoo-rah, All my energy dissipates, dragging my frustrations with it.

I hug the bag to me, again, panting, my legs barely keeping me standing, as Rondell screams in my ear once again, to 'fuck your rules, man.'

I contemplate continuing, pushing my body further, but when the song ends and Lana Del Rey's, Big Eyes, starts, I know, and my body agrees, that i'm finished. Although how that song got on my workout playlist, I have no idea.

I have to practically threaten myself with my own death to take a shower before going to sleep, but I find the strength before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

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