The crack of impact cuts through air heavy with heat and sweat, clinging to your skin, coating the back of your throat, thick as the tension in the crowd.
Someone nearby whistles low. I move fast before anyone can look back—head down, shoulders tight—until I reach the edge of the benches, arms crossed, lips pulled tight, pretending I’m not watching.
Even though I am.
In front of me, Lucien moves like a storm, dark skin, violence coiled in motion. With each step, the stone on the rope at his chest catches the candlelight, flaring bright before the glow spills over his skin, tracing the sweat that clings there.
He’s beautiful, but it’s Talen my eyes lock on to.
He’s a force, coiled power and lethal grace, all bronzed skin and sharp lines. Muscle cut lean and hard, not bulked but built for speed—every breath pulling tight across his broad chest, every shift rolling over his stomach in clean definition.
And yet, there’s no excess. No flourish. He doesn’t fight to impress. He fights like it’s instinct. Like it’s easy.
Maybe that’s why my gaze slips, drawn by the rhythm of him, following the movement lower, tracing the grooves where his stomach narrows into that deep hollow that disappears beneath his waistband—a sinfulinvitationcarved straight into the strength of his body.
“You’re slowing, old man.” Talen mocks, grinning as he circles back.
“I’m a month older than you.” Lucien throws back.
“Exactly.”
The crowd leans in as they clash again, the air thick with tension. But Talen’s feet are light, his movements precise, like the mat was built for him.
When he twists to land a strike, I catch a glimpse of a mark above his heart and scars lacing his ribs, silver lines that only make him look more dangerous.
A crack echoes through the hall as his fist slams into Lucien’s jaw. The hit drives him back a step, but Lucien steadies, straightening with a grin that shows more teeth than smile.
But Talen doesn’t flinch, just shifts on to his back foot, spine curving, muscles coiled, already set for the next move.
Lucien lunges, but Talen drops low, rolls under and sweeps his legs out clean. The impact rattles the floor as Lucien hits the mat, the roar of the crowd swallowing the sound.
“You yield yet?” Talen rises over him, grinning.
“Fuck off.”
Talen offers him a hand, Lucien grabs it, yanks him forward—and they’re back at it, trading blows with the precision of killers who know exactly how far they can push without breaking bone. The crowd eats it up, every strike feeding the frenzy. And you can see they’re enjoying it too, both of them.
The sick part is,so am I.
My chest is tight, a fast thrum pushing under my ribs, every move snagging my attention. I shouldn’t be watching. I should walk away.
But I don’t.
Tomorrow’s my last assignment, after that, I’m gone. Free. So really, what’s the harm in watching? Just for a minute...
Not because I’m impressed, not because I care. But because I’ve been watched since the moment I set foot in this place. Measured. Scrutinised. So maybe, just this once, I’m allowed to look. Not at him, exactly. Just at the way he moves.
He’s still everything I’m supposed to hate. Do hate. He’s still a weapon, I haven’t forgotten that. But he did save my life. Twice. And for all his control, there’s a reckless edge under it—something that pulls the eye, no matter how hard I try to look away.
Doesn’t mean I want him.
It just means I’m not blind. And yeah, maybe I should be stronger than this, but I’m not because the truth is, I noticed him that first day in the courtyard—before I knew his name.
Does that make me weak? A hypocrite?
Probably.
But I can hatehimand still admire the body right in front of me.
