I only have eyes for her, and that won’t do.
“I wanted to ask,” Odette says, fingers running over her sternum to draw my attention to the swells of flesh there. “Do you still box? I mean… For fun? I find it so… manly.” With the last word she reaches out and squeezes my bicep, letting out a delicate shiver.
I watch as Ren’s lips twitch, like she’s fighting back a smile at how blatant she’s being, but she also jerks her chin at myknuckles, the red marks on them that will turn into bruises. “It looks like he might, Odi.”
I spent too long in the resort gym this afternoon, working off the pent up energy and nerves that always precede something like this, being the center of attention, the focus of so many eyes.
You’d think I’d be used to it. I’ve spent a good portion of my life in the public eye. First as a student athlete, then a professional boxer and finally as a member of quite possibly the most famous pack in the world. Second to only Forsythe’s sister’s pack, the Crown Ashbourne pack. The heirs to the throne.
But it hasn’t gotten easier.
I still feel wound too tight, anxious and fidgeting, if I’m unable to burn off some of my nerves beforehand.
I’m just grateful the resort put up a punching bag for us. I wouldn’t make it through this without beating the shit out of something.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake out the last of the tension, and when I glance back at Florence, she’s already watching me. Really watching me, brow wrinkled, like she’s trying to assess me. Her gaze flicks down to my hands again—my bruised knuckles—and when her eyes lift to mine this time, there’s no judgment there, no fear. Just curiosity. And something warm enough to make my chest go tight.
She tips her head, that tentative half-smile tugging at her lips. “Well,” she murmurs, almost distractedly, like she can’t quite believe what she’s saying. “It suits you.”
My brows knit. “What does?”
“Boxing. Or, you know… the whole,” she waves a finger vaguely at my chest, “big, intimidating, punch-first-ask-questions-nevervibe you have going on.”
A laugh almost escapes me. Almost. But I manage to bite it back.
“Very on brand for a bruiser,” she adds with that same air of disbelief at her own words, as though she expected me to be… different?
Bruiser.The word lands like a fist to the sternum. If anyone else had called me that, I would take it as an insult. How many times have people sniffed at me, scoffed behind my back, made comments about my violent nature? But with Ren it feels affectionate in a way I don’t think she even realizes.Bruiser,said without fear. Without hesitation. Like she’s naming something she finds… endearing. And is shocked by it.
Odette stiffens beside her, likely reading the word as an insult.
Me?
I feel something warm unfurl under my ribs. Enticing. Dangerous.
Oh, yes, Florence Karlin is pure danger wrapped up in the prettiest of packages.
Odette makes a small, irritated noise in her throat. “Bruiser?” she repeats, with a sniff. “How charmingly… common.”
Florence doesn’t even look at her. “Mm,” she hums lightly. “Some things don’t need fancy names to work.”
Odette blinks, offended on my behalf. “Well, his title isSirAshbourne.” She emphasizes each syllable like Florence is slow. It makes me grit my teeth around words I know I shouldn’t say. Not here. Not ever. “We’re supposed to show them the proper respect.”
Florence just smiles, sweet, polite. “Oh, I know. But titles don’t make a person.” She pauses, a dimple appears in her cheek that I have the urge to lick. “Bruisesdo.” She says it with a smile, but I get the impression that she’s had a few bruises of her own.
I choke on a laugh. Odette’s jaw tightens. Florence beams.
The omega plants a hand on her hip, offended. And not on my behalf. “I was simply trying to show interest in your…career,Sir Ashbourne.”
Ren chokes on a laugh, the tips of her fingers flying to her lips as if that will help stop her giggle. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Odette huffs. I’m not sure why she’s still here, given how unpleasant she’s finding this whole conversation. We certainly don’t need her to be a part of it.
“Bruiser,” I echo slowly, tasting the nickname. “That what you see when you look at me?”
She shrugs, smile widening. “I see a lot of things. But mostly? Yeah. I think bruiser fits. But in the best way.”
“What way is that?”
