Part of me felt like that had already happened.

“You’re distressed,” Kai said as my left fist slammed into the big punching bag.

“No, I’m pissed off.” I threw another punch, concentrating more on power than on form, and my shoulder ached in protest. I bounced on the balls of my feet, as I’d been taught, both fists held ready, though my broken right arm would not see active duty.

“Does that help?”

“Yes.” But that was a lie. Usually, hitting something put me in an instant good mood, but punching one-handed only made me feel awkward and infuriatingly powerless.

Hopefully our unwelcome guest was suffering similar frustrations. The thunderbird stood with his own broken arm cradled to his bare and still-bloody chest. His good hand—fully human for the moment—clutched a steel bar at the front of the cage, through which he watched me vent my grief, anger, and frustration on the equipment in our homemade gym.

Upstairs, I could hardly breathe without wanting to kill someone, just from inhaling all the tension. But like the office, the basement was practically soundproof, by virtue of being underground. The small, high windows and the door at the top of the stairs were the only weaknesses in the sonic armor, and you’d have to be very close to them to overhear anything clearly. So my solitude would have been nearly complete, if not for the human-form bird studying me as if I were the circus oddity.

“What happened to your arm?” Kai asked as I threw another punch. I’d skipped the gloves, but what were skinned knuckles compared to torn flesh, bruised hearts, and everything else my fellow cats were suffering upstairs?

I swiped my good arm across my sweaty forehead without looking at him. “I broke it.” And that reminder sucked up what little joy remained in my useless punching, so I shifted my weight onto my left foot and let my right leg fly. I hit the heavy bag hard enough to make it swing sluggishly, and the blow radiated into my knee and beyond. A tiny spark of triumph shot through me. Kicking was better. There was nothing wrong with my legs.

“How did you break it?” Kai asked, obviously unbothered by my pointedly short answers.

I steadied the bag with my good hand and faced him, hoping I looked fierce in spite of the scribbled-on cast. “I broke it dispatching of the bastards who tried to kill several of my Pride mates.”

I expected Kai to flinch, or laugh, or show obvious skepticism. Instead, he only nodded solemnly. Almost respectfully. “So you understand our need for vengeance.”

“No.” I whirled again and grunted as my left leg hit the bag. “We deal in justice.”

“Justice and vengeance are the same.”

“Now you’re just lying to yourself to validate blood thirst.” I kicked again, and the bag swung harder. “Justice is for the victim.” Kick. “Vengeance is for the survivor.” Kick. I stopped to steady the bag again and glanced at the bird now watching me in fascination. “You’re not doing this for Finn.” I threw a left jab and had to stop myself from following it with a right out of habit. “You’re doing it for yourselves, and that’s anything but honorable.” Contempt dripped from my voice, and blood smeared the bag when my knuckles split open with the next punch.