Ezzy’s pencil is still in my hand, flicking back and forth between my fingers like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
Below, I catch sight of Daniel wrapping up a match with his training partner, both of them breathless and slick with sweat.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. The pencil keeps moving. Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to avoid the stiff, silent tension radiating off Ezzy and Finn on either side of me.
Not that I’m much better. My skin’s crawling with it, tight, restless, hot in all the wrong places. God, I need a night alone. Just one. Somewhere I’m not surrounded by snoring or surveillance.
Because if this pressure keeps building, I’m going to do somethingreallystupid the next time I see?—
Shit.
A flicker of light catches at the edge of my vision. I glance down.
The next sparring pair prepare to step on to the mat.
Lucien takes the centre first, tall, lean, all effortless dark lines. The Rec Hall’s still dim, lit only by a few narrow beams of morning light creeping in through the high windows. But it’s enough to catch the stone hanging at his throat, his necklace flashes with each step, sharp against the gloom.
And then?—
Talen.
He’s standing by the benches, fingers hooked in the hem of his black training shirt.
I should go, the ache’s already bad. Pressure wound so tight under my skin, it’s a miracle I managed to walk here in the first place. But leaving would be too obvious. And I’ve handled worse than watching him spar, I can sit here, breathe through it, keep my head on straight.
Easy.
But then—slow, unbothered—he lifts the shirt over his head, arms stretching, shoulders flexing as the fabric bunches, sliding over the hard line of his torso before he pulls it free.
My mouth goes dry, and just like that, the final ounce of control I was clinging to slips.
Then he turns, and the matte-black scales of ink come into focus, spreading across his back—dense, like armour carved straight into skin. They follow the line of his spine, winding over bronzed muscle that shifts with every controlled movement.
My grip on the pencil tightens, it’s only been a week since I saw him last, but my body’s reacting like I’ve been starved for months.
As he steps on to the mat, and I notice a fresh gash along his side—red, ugly, just above his hip. My stomach tightens, a flicker of worry cutting through the heat. But he moves like it’s nothing and positions himself in front of Lucien with the same steady, lethal calm he always has.
Lucien circles first, testing for an opening; his usual grin in place. Both of them draw the attention of every girl in the room, but it’s Talen that draws every inch of mine.
It’s just a fight, just sparring, nothing to stare at.
Talen rolls his shoulders once, shakes out his hands, then raises them in stance—no hesitation, no posturing, justcontrolled, coiled readiness. The gash on his side pulls a little as he moves, but he doesn’t flinch.
I try not to look at the way his abs flex with every shift. Itry. God help me, I really fucking try. Dropping my gaze, forcing it down, zeroing in on Ezzy’s purple pencil, still flicking between my fingers—tight grip, steady rhythm.
Totally fine.Just breathe. Just focus.
But my gaze snaps right back because apparently I have zero goddamn self-control, and Talen shirtless on a mat is basically the world’s most perfect mistake.
Movement pulls at the edge of my vision, Lucien feints left, then lunges right. Talen ducks the swing, fast—one arm sweeping under, the other coming up to block, his torso twisting just enough to make the muscles in his back pull tight and?—
Nope. Not looking.
I glance away, exhale hard, but immediately look back.
Bronze catches in the light where sweat slides down his skin. Talen moves across the mat like it’s nothing—fluid, controlled—his chest rising with each shift, every motion wound tight with intent.
There’s a line of muscle that runs from his stomach to just below his waistband. My pulse surges because, fuck me, I want my hands on it.
