Venture Untamed (The Venture Books) by R.H. Russell Page A

As Venture pushed up, his eyes locked with Colt’s. Colt smirked and nudged Border, who was doing leg-lifts next to him. Venture was going to have to do those too, along with all the other exercises he’d missed, once he had the push-ups out of the way. And the longer he took to do his push-ups, the more exercises he’d miss . . . and the more push-ups he’d have to do. It didn’t pay to be late to Beamer’s.
    Venture did another push-up, and felt his blisters burst open, then the raw skin underneath rub off with the friction against the canvas. No matter how much care they took, grit found a way to be tracked onto the mat, and now it was grinding into his broken skin. He tried not to think about the pain, about Border and Colt. He focused on counting. One hundred-seven, one hundred eight . . .
    “Goodview! What’s the matter with your boy?”  
    “I don’t know, Coach.”
    Beamer and Earnest approached, while he continued doing his push-ups, praying to be ordered to stop.
    “Up, Delving. You’re bleeding all over my mat.”
    “I’m Sorry, sir,” he said, although there were already plenty of old red-brown stains on the mat. New, bright red smears streaked the dingy canvas under and around where his hands had been. Blood stained the front of his shirt where his chest had met the mat as well.
    Beamer nodded at Earnest, who returned the gesture.
    “Let’s see your hands, Vent,” Earnest said.
    Venture held them out, his arms trembling with exertion and pain.
    “How did you get mat burns like that just from doing push-ups?”
    “I had some blisters before I started.”
    “From what?” Beamer said.
    “From working this weekend, sir.” Venture felt the heat of embarrassment in his cheeks. He’d brought his status to the attention of the whole center again; everyone was watching. A soft ripple of laughter came from Border and Colt’s direction.
    Beamer raised his bushy eyebrows, then said to Earnest, “Get him fixed up and get this mat cleaned up. I want to see him in my office in five minutes.”
    Earnest glowered at Venture. His tardiness, coupled with the bloody hands, which made Earnest appear neglectful, reflected poorly on his trainer. Heavy-hearted, Venture followed him to the little alcove where the healing supplies were kept.  
    “Why didn’t you have me wrap you before you started? Now I have to clean up you and the mat.” Earnest poured a stinging, vinegary concoction the boys called liquid punishment over his palms and rubbed it in roughly with a towel.
    Venture fought back a gasp and forced himself to hold his hands open. “I’m sorry.”
    He knew better than to complain or to point out the trouble he would’ve invited had he taken the time to wrap his hands. Earnest was mad enough already; the excruciating absence of his usual care in treating his wounds made that clear.
    “The gods only know what Beamer’s got planned for you. Better start praying to Felsan for mercy.”
    Earnest capped the bottle and tossed it aside, and Venture, who had no intention of calling on the god of pain and death for leniency, let out a breath of relief—until Earnest began to pull a long strip of cotton wrapping around his hands, tightly, mercilessly.
    Earnest moved to tie off the second hand, but Venture couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled it back. “I got it.” He took the end of the wrap in his teeth and pulled it tight. “I’ll clean up the mat.” He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of a bandaged hand.
    “No, you’ll go in there and find out what the blazes Beamer wants you to do, and whatever it is, you’ll do it right or I’m the one who’s going to hear about it. He’s waiting for you.”

    Beamer leaned back in his office chair and folded his long, muscular arms behind his close-cropped, graying head. “Why were you late this morning?”  
    “Sir, I’m sorry. I overslept.”
    “You overslept? Why?” Beamer leaned forward. His pale blue eyes probed Venture