Eight

The hotel room door opened and Celeste walked into the dimly lit room. She couldn't keep the shock off of her face when she noticed Brock was sitting on the bed, dressed in a pair of black gym shorts, already showered and cleaned up from his day with Paul. He usually didn't return until later, so she knew that he had cut the training short. She could only imagine how Paul must have reacted. His eyes snapped to her profile, and his eyes brightened. "Celeste..."

"Stay away from me, Brock." She grabbed her suitcase from the closet. Brock's eyes widened and he stood to his feet. He figured she would have come back sooner, with no place to go the night before, and would have been more than happy to stay. He hoped, if anything else, that the shot he had taken last night would have at least made her stay, if not for anything more than fear. It appeared though he was wrong. She stalked past him and his breath caught when he noticed the purple bruise on her cheek. He didn't think he had struck her that hard.

"Where were you last night?" he asked, trying to keep his tone gentle. He had to be really careful with how he treaded now. "I looked everywhere for you!"

"None of your business," she replied, grabbing a stack of her shirts and putting them in the suitcase. "All you need to know is I'm going home."

"Home? Home is here, Celeste; you aren't going anywhere," he replied firmly, taking a stack of T-shirts out of the suitcase. She slapped them out of his hand and they landed in a disheveled pile at the bottom of the suitcase. He cocked an incredulous eyebrow and stared at her. Just who in the hell does she think she is? he thought. She appeared to be pretty firm this time around.

"I'm leaving, Brock. You have no physical right to keep me here," she informed him. Brock stood back and watched her, shaking his head. She was mumbling the whole time, words that weren't quite registering with him, moving back and forth between the dresser and the suitcase. Brock knew he had crossed the line the night before. This time he was pretty sure that she'd find a way to leave. But he was still going to try and make her stay by any means necessary. Nobody ever left Brock Lesnar. He'd leave them first.

He tried to be polite one more time. "Celeste...please stay."

"It's too late for that, Brock. It might be better for the two of us if we just had some time apart." The words knocked the wind out of her...and out of him as well. She could read his thoughts. Is she serious?

"Celeste, you can't mean that..."

"The bruise on my face tells me I mean it," she replied, putting her lingerie in the suitcase. "I never thought you'd do something like that, Brock. For all of your faults, I never thought..."

"Celeste..." She held up a hand.

"Don't." She shook her head. "I don't want to hear it right now. I just want to go home. The more distance I can put between you and I at the moment, the better." The words broke his heart, but irritated him. Doesn't she think she's blowing this out of proportion just a little bit? He decided to keep humoring her.

"Celeste...tell me we can work through this."

"I don't know what I can tell you at the moment," she replied. "Other than I need to be alone right now."

He became agitated, and something clicked with him. "Who were you with last night? That's why you're leaving, isn't it? You were off with Mark!"

"You've gone off the deep end," she replied calmly, closing and zipping the suitcase. The calmness in her voice pissed him off. "I'm not staying here to deal with your paranoia. I'm off."

"To hell you are," he raged, grabbing her arm. She wheeled around to face him, her eyes shooting hazel sparks.

"Get your hands off of me," she snapped. "I'm leaving, and there isn't anything that you can do to stop me." He smirked.

"Really?" He shook his head, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. "You were off with Mark last night weren't you?" He shook his head in disgust. "You probably fucked him."

"That must be your guilty conscience talking," she retorted. His eyes clouded over with rage and he pushed her back, hard against the wall. She cried out in pain as the corner slammed against her spine and her head hit the wall. She wanted to touch the back of her head, try and soothe the stinging, but he was gripping her arms tightly.

"You listen to me, Celeste," he growled. "I won't stand for you accusing me of cheating.

"The first thing you're going to do is unpack your fucking suitcase. Then you're going to crawl into bed. And if I even hear the name 'Mark' on your fucking lips, you'll regret the day you ever came out here. Are we clear?"

"The day I came out here? Do I need to remind you that you dragged me out here," she spat. She tried to push him away, but he just pushed against her harder, causing her to cry out. She was determined to let him have it though. She was terrified, but she needed to tell him off. "So what? It's fine for you to accuse me of cheating when I'm locked in a hotel room twenty-four hours a day? But I can't do the same to you? That's really balanced. Brock, you're not the same person I fell in love with...and, to be honest, I don't think I love you anymore. Not this fucked up incarnation of Brock Lesnar, anyway."

Brock scoffed. "Get the fuck out of my face with that bullshit. It was a fucking love tap, Celeste. You're just blowing a gasket over nothing. Get your stuff back in the room and get into bed. We'll work it out in the morning."

"That's the thing, Brock," she told him, her tone soft, yet firm. "I don't think it's worth working out." His face contorted with blind rage and he grabbed her roughly, dragging her back into the bedroom area. She started to shout at him to let her go, but he threw her on the bed. He was on her in seconds.