He’s big and broad, his hands scarred, his eyes softening when they land on me.
“Morning, little one,” he says. “Did you eat breakfast?”
All the men working for my papa have much heavier accents than I do, but I love it. It makes me feel separate—like Enzo and I have a special language, even though it’s all the same.
“I’m about to,” I lie easily.
Breakfast before training is basically suicide, even if I wasn’t late. Elijah’s workouts make me regret every crumb I’ve ever eaten.
He narrows his eyes but doesn’t push. He’s seen me throw tantrums, cry myself to sleep, and once, hide in the laundry cart to avoid a lesson with my tutor. He knows when I’m lying, but he always lets it go.
“Tell your papa I’ll be in the west wing if he needs me,” he says.
I nod and head toward the courtyard.
Sliding open the glass door, the air is crisp, the sky painted gold and pink. The courtyard is already alive with grunts, curses, and the rhythmic thwack of fists against pads. Elijah stands near the far fence, tall and lean, his dark hair styled back so it doesn’t fall into his eyes as he wraps his hands. He’s wearing black sweats and a shirt that clings in all the ways I’m trying not to notice.
I jog over, my shoelace immediately coming undone.
Perfect.
He smirks without looking up. “Morning, Ace. Try not to cry today.”
“Try not to lose today,” I shoot back, crouching to re-tie my shoe.
“You’re dreaming.”
“I dream big.”
“Yeah, because you’re always dreaming of me,” he says, tossing me a set of hand wraps.
I catch them and start winding them around my wrists.
Heat rises in my body even though I know this isn’t flirting. Elijah sees me as a child, a little sister, an extension of Enzo—but I think he’ll realize what I see one day.
That we are infinitely tied. Our souls connected.
We move through warm-ups: stretches, sprints across the courtyard, and shadowboxing. My muscles burn, but I refuse to let it show.
We train for self-defence, so I can tap out whenever I need to, but when Elijah watches everything—my stance, footwork, breathing—he’s memorizing my movements, and I can’t help but push myself until I can no longer catch my breath.
By the time we start sparring, my hair falls and sweat is dripping down my back.
“Guard up,” he says.
“It is up.”
“Not enough. You leave your ribs open.”
I grin. “That’s to bait you.”
“Bad bait,” he says, and lands a jab to my side before I can block.
I grunt, doubling over slightly. “Ow. You’re abusive.”
He takes out my feet and I’m flat on my back in an instant.
“You’re dramatic.” He pants as he towers over me, putting his body above mine, forcing my wrists down so I can’t fight him anymore.
