When we get home, she goes straight to the kitchen, pours herself more coffee, and sits at the table like she’s lived here forever. I stand in the doorway, watching her, every instinct warring with itself.
I don’t know what this is becoming. All I know is that Clara is no longer something I can compartmentalize, no longer a liability or a tool. She’s become a fixture in my world—steady and distracting, the root that keeps me grounded when everything else is always shifting.
I let her stay. I let her see me, the real me, for as long as she wants. I know there will be a price for this weakness. There always is. But for now, I let myself believe in the lie that I can have this too—her, here, looking at me like I’m more than the sum of my sins.
She glances up and meets my eyes. I don’t look away.
***
The gym is cold this morning, empty but for the echo of our steps and the steady thrum of pipes in the walls. I never bring outsiders here. This space is mine—steel, sweat, and silence, every weight and mat a testament to discipline.
Clara hesitates at the threshold, arms crossed over her chest, watching as I wrap my hands for sparring. She doesn’t complain, but there’s wariness in the way she scans the room, cataloging exits, obstacles, things that might be turned against her. She’s smarter than most of my men.
I tell her, “You need to learn how to defend yourself.” My voice comes out harder than intended. I blame the nerves, the way her presence seems to rearrange the air. “If you’re going to stay in this house, you’ll do it on my terms.”
She scoffs, but steps onto the mat anyway, bare feet flexing. “What, are you worried I’ll run, or that someone else will get to me first?”
I want to say both. I want to say neither. Instead, I nod to the mat and beckon her forward.
We start slow—basic stances, how to balance her weight, how to hold her arms up so nobody can grab her wrists. I circle her, correcting her posture, fingers lingering at the sharp angle of her elbow, the soft curve of her hip.
My touch should be clinical. I tell myself it is. But the truth is I can’t seem to help the way my hands settle a little too long, the way I breathe in the faint scent of her skin.
“Don’t let me crowd you,” I instruct, stepping closer until I’m all she can see.
She tries to push me back, shoulders squared, but her strength is all heart, no leverage. I catch her wrists before she can twist away and pull her off-balance, guiding her through the motion again, slower this time.
She’s stubborn, refusing to meet my gaze, but her breath comes quicker, mouth parted in frustration.
“You’re enjoying this,” she mutters, low enough she probably hopes I won’t hear.
I ignore it, but the corner of my mouth twitches. “If you can break my grip, I’ll let you walk out of here without another lesson.”
She makes a show of rolling her eyes. Still, she tries again—twisting her arm, stepping into my space, almost getting free. Almost. At the last second, I turn her, pinning her back to my chest.
Her body goes rigid, spine pressed against me, my arms braced around her. She’s warm, tense, and I can feel her heartbeat tripping wildly.
She goes still. For a moment, neither of us breathe.
Her hair brushes my chin. I inhale, slow, fighting the urge to bury my face there. Every instinct screams to pull her closer, to memorize the weight of her against me. Instead, I hold her where she is, letting her decide what happens next.
She’s the first to break, wrenching free with a burst of frustration. She stumbles back, cheeks flushed, eyes sparking with anger. Her hands ball into fists at her sides.
“Is this why you keep me locked up?” she snaps, voice shaking. “You parade me around when it suits you, but mostly I’m hidden away like a dirty secret. Is that what I am to you? Some shameful thing you tuck away when it’s inconvenient?”
The accusation lands deeper than any blow. My jaw goes tight. I flex my hands, trying to will away the sting. I’ve taken bullets with less pain than the words she throws at me now.
“That’s not—” The words die in my throat. I want to tell her she’s wrong. I want to explain that keeping her out of sight is the only way I know to keep her safe. Every excuse tastes bitter, and she deserves more than another lie.
Instead, I cross the mat in two strides. I don’t give her time to flinch. My hand cups the side of her face, thumb grazing her cheek, and then I’m kissing her hard, desperate, nothing gentle left in me. I pour everything I can’t say into the way my mouth claims hers, the scrape of stubble against her jaw, the heat of my body pressed close.
She stiffens at first, caught between fury and need, then melts into it, matching me kiss for kiss. Her hands clutch my shirt, pulling me closer, nails biting through the fabric. I tasteher defiance, the challenge in the way she bites my lower lip, refuses to yield.
We break apart only when air becomes impossible to ignore. Her lips are swollen, breath coming in uneven bursts. I keep my hand at her jaw, tracing the line of her throat, and try to steady myself.
“I’m not ashamed of you,” I say, voice rough. “If anything, I should be ashamed of how I’ve treated you.”
She scoffs again, but there’s no real venom behind it now. Her fingers loosen their grip on my shirt, but she doesn’t step away. We stand close, the space between us crackling with everything unsaid.
