His voice dips, playful with an edge that flips my stomach. “Do you know what happens to brats, Trouble?”
No. Tell me. Do it.
Heat floods my throat. My tongue goes useless. Every rule I ever set for myself peels away in strips until I’m left with one truth: I want his hands, his orders, the filthy promise behind that question.
Finally, he steps aside, letting me pass. “You’ll learn,” he says lightly, though the weight in his tone makes my knees weak.
I step into his house, every nerve buzzing, and the door lands in place with a quiet, merciless click.
He leads me through the entryway, his hand brushing the small of my back long enough to make my breath hitch. The house is as intimidating inside as it is outside—sunlight spills over polished wood and steel, wide open spaces with nothing out of order.
“Nice place,” I manage, my voice thinner than I want.
He glances at me over his shoulder, eyes glinting. “Thanks. It’s quiet here. No distractions.”
He takes me down a hall to a room enclosed by floor-to-ceiling glass, sunlight streaming in from every angle. It overlooks the garden, the winter light catching on the frost-dusted branches outside. The space is immaculate—modern exercise equipment and dumbbells lined against one wall, a mat rolled out in the center, everything arranged with precision and purpose. It’s more than a training room; it’s a sanctuary.
“This is where we’ll work,” Nate says, stepping onto the mat. “Plenty of room. Everything we need.”
And everything I’m suddenly not sure I can handle.
I set my bag down in the corner, trying to hide that my hands are shaking. “Let’s start with warm-ups. Mobility first.” My voice is steady, but only because I’ve practiced sounding that way.
Nate doesn’t argue. He gives me a low, unreadable look and steps onto the mat. For a few blessed seconds, it almost feels normal. I cue the first drill, and he moves with me, precise and strong, his body responding exactly the way it should. Except his eyes never leave me. Even when he’s stretching, even when he’s supposed to be focusing on his form, his gaze stays locked, heavy on my skin, burning through the thin fabric of my scrubs.
The air feels different here—thicker, every breath dragging him deeper into me.
“Good,” I say, forcing clinical into my tone. “Keep your hips steady. Breathe through it.”
He smirks, not breaking eye contact. “You’re very…commanding.”
“It’s my job,” I snap, a little too quickly.
“Mm,” he hums, as if he doesn’t believe me, and shifts into the next stretch.
By the time we move to the second set, his compliance frays. He slows down, moving deliberately out of alignment, testing the waters.
My spine stiffens. “No, hold it. Keep this position locked?—”
“Like this?” His tone is all faux innocence, but the curve of his mouth gives him away.
Heat prickles at the back of my neck. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “Stop playing around, Russo. Focus.”
He steps in.
“You’re bossy.” His voice drops, low and smooth. “And we need to make one thing clear.”
My nerves are on edge, frayed like a live wire. I stumble back half a step, heart pounding. “What’s that?”
His smile sharpens, slow and wicked. He takes another step, shrinking the space I tried to put between us. “Exceptin that one PT room at the Defenders complex, I’m the one in charge. You do what I tell you.”
My pulse trips, my mouth opening and closing with no sound.
“That’s not going to be ideal for your recovery,” I deadpan.
“Then maybe, for the sake of my recovery,” he continues, every word measured. “We do the session for an hour. I will allow you to set the tone.”
“You willallowme?”‘ I huff incredulously, trying to make him sound ridiculous but his face doesn’t move.
