A few men are lifting weights near the entrance; their conversation’s a low rumble punctuated by laughter. They’re attractive and well-built, the kind of guys who would normally catch my attention, but my eyes find Bodhi immediately, drawn to him like a compass finding north.
He’s at the far end of the yard, shirtless despite the chilly morning air, and attacking a heavy bag with violent intensity. His skin gleams with sweat, muscles bunching and releasing with every strike. His tanned flesh is perfect, with no sign of the bullet wound. He’s breathtaking.
And while I’d love to stay here and admire how powerful and impressive he looks with all that controlled strength on display,I can’t. Because he looks like a troubled man trying to deal with his problems by beating the shit out of a punch bag.
Every punch he throws is reckless and uncontrolled, and his form deteriorates as exhaustion and frustration chip away at his focus. The bag swings wildly, and he chases it, bare fists connecting with dull thuds that echo off the surrounding buildings.
One of the other men calls out to him, telling him to take a break, but Bodhi doesn’t even glance over. Just keeps hitting until his knuckles are raw and bleeding, and his chest is heaving.
I can see the tremor in his arms from twenty feet away.
I grip the fence tighter.
Because there’s another feeling underneath the longing. One that’s been building for days, fed by every moment he’s left me alone while he deals with whatever this is. It sits in my chest alongside the want, heavier and harder to ignore.
Anger.
Does he look at me now and see me as weak because I couldn’t protect myself? Because I’m not like him?
I know what Natalie told me. But logic doesn’t quiet the voice whispering that none of it explains why my bed was cold and empty last night.
Bodhi lands one final blow, so hard, the chain holding the bag groans, and its insides rupture in a puff of smoke and dust. He stands there for a moment, head bowed and shoulders rising and falling with laboured breaths. Then he turns and reaches for a towel that’s draped over the fence, then freezes, posture rigid.
His nose twitches just as Natalie’s did earlier. He’s caught my scent, the breeze carrying it across the yard.
My whole body tightens in response to the flare of the bond, heat blooming beneath my skin, despite the cold.
When he spins in my direction, eyes meeting mine, I don’t look away. Don’t smile, don’t wave, and don’t pretend I wasn’twatching. I hold his gaze across the yard and let him see everything I’m feeling. The anger I can’t swallow anymore. The hurt. And the burning need that won’t leave me alone no matter how hard I try to smother it.
For a moment, his body shifts toward me. The bond hums with anticipation. Yes. Come to me. Please.
Then something closes off behind his eyes, but not before I feel a gut-wrenching jolt of yearning.
He looks away, grabs his shirt from the ground, then walks off toward the main building without a backward glance.
I watch him disappear through the door, my hands still gripping the chain-link hard enough to leave red welts on my palms.
Training continues around me. Weights clank, someone grunts through a set of pull-ups, and conversations rise and fall, all oddly normal, as I snap out of my daze.
The cold finds its way through my jacket now that the flare of anger is fading, leaving me hollow and tired.
So, he can watch over me for hours in the freezing cold, but he can’t find five minutes to talk?
No. I’m not putting up with that.
31
BODHI
I’m still staring at the door I came through, running from my mate, when Van’s voice, loud and clear, rings out.
“Got something.”
The words pull me back to the present. I cross to his workstation, grateful for the distraction.
“You got an address?” I ask.
“Better.” Van’s fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up satellite imagery on the centre screen. “Shell corporation that owns the same property they brought Emma to.” He zooms in on a cluster of buildings surrounded by dense forest. “But this one’s still active.”
