“Good thing I don’t plan on getting to know her. I don’t give a fuck where she comes from.”
Colton stops at the stairwell. “You ever think about leaving?”
I laugh. “And do what? Be a CPA? Sell cars?”
He shrugs, looking past me. “Could do worse.”
I clap him on the shoulder, harder than I need to. “Go home, Colton. You look like shit.”
“You too, brother.”
I keep walking, fists jammed in my pockets, mind already turning over the Board’s words. The mafia princess. Mine to sponsor, mine to break if I want to. They don’t care how, as long as I do it on their terms.
Eight a.m. I’ll be there.
Whatever she is, I’ll find out what she’s made of. And if she’s anything like her family, maybe—just maybe—I’ll finally get to see what happens when I go too far.
I walk until I hit our dorm and make it into the room I converted into a makeshift gym. An old bag, some weights. Nothing fancy.I slam the door behind me, enough to shake the glass. The room is a split personality: half bougie, half kill zone.
Framed on the windowsill: three black-and-white photos of me mid-fight, all broken noses and bare fists. The shelf on the left holds trophies, medals, my first five dollar in a frame. Underneath, a worn pull-out couch. There’s a switchblade in the cup holder. Just in case.
I peel the jacket off first, then the tie, the shirt, the cufflinks. Each piece hits the floor and stays there. Underneath, my skin is mottled with scars: some fresh, some faded, all earned. I roll my shoulders, already itching for something to hit.
The gym gear is in the closet, but I don’t bother. Just a pair of shorts I found on the couch, bare feet, and adrenaline.
I start with the pull-up bar across the door frame, slow and clean, letting the burn build up in the lats. Thirty reps, then down to push-ups—knuckles, not palms. The rug stains with sweat and a little blood from my split knuckle, but that’s what rugs are for. Every set, I double the reps, chasing the edge of exhaustion.
It’s not enough.
I hit the heavy bag. The first shot nearly rips it from the ceiling, the chains screaming. I work the bag like it’s an enemy—jab, hook, elbow, knee. The rhythm is hypnotic, every impact an answer to the noise inside my head.
Dahlia. I don’t know her face yet, but I know her name. The taste of it is sharp, sweet, dangerous. The way Abelard said it—like a dare. Like he thinks she’ll survive me, or that I’ll break trying.
I keep hitting the bag. Sweat stings my eyes. My hands are shaking now, not from fear but from the anticipation. The craving. It’s worse than any high I’ve ever chased.
The bag bursts on the uppercut, sand and stuffing spilling across the rug. I stand there, sucking wind, fists dripping, and laugh. Real, animal, from the gut.
Should have bought a new one last week when the rip started.
Colton’s in my doorway, arms folded, looking at the carnage.
“You going for a record?” he says.
“Just keeping loose.” I grab a towel, wipe the grit from my knuckles.
He stays there, not moving. “You ever think you’ll get tired of this?”
I shrug. “Not today.”
Colton steps inside, closes the door behind him. “Tomorrow’s going to be a clusterfuck. You know that, right?”
“She’s just another student,” I say. “Doesn’t matter where she’s from.”
Colton’s eyes are dark. “You know that’s not true. You think you can bully her, but she’s not prey. She’s a weapon.”
I grin, teeth bloody. “So am I.”
He sits on the edge of the desk, feet planted. “I’m serious. Her father—he makes the Board look like Girl Scouts. You lay a finger on her, you better be ready to lose more than your place here. Not even Dad will be able to save you from the Kings.”
