Ash
My workroom is lit low. Not dark — never dark, I don’t like blind spots — but low. Screens humming on the far wall. Steel racks lined with gear. Matte black table bolted to the floor in the center of the space. Rubberized matting underfoot to dampen impact and blood. The air smells like gun oil, coffee, and lemon cleaner because I don’t like mess lingering where I breathe.
She stops just inside the threshold, eyes flicking over the room like she’s assessing entry points, exits, usable cover. Good. She’s still thinking.
Her hair’s a little mussed. Her mouth is a little swollen.Vale.
I ignore that, because I’m still navigating this whole thing and I need control. Calm. “You’re late,” I tell her instead, even though I know she’s not.
Her mouth tilts, that annoying smirk sliding into place. “I kissed Mateo in a hallway and he talks a lot.”
I don’t smile. I don’t let myself. I just jerk my chin toward the mat. “Stand there.”
She rolls her eyes at my obvious dismissal, but doesn’t argue. That’s…New.
She steps into the center of the room, bare legs, borrowed shirt and the gun Wraith fit her against her ribs. The holster sits clean and flush along her side, no printing. He did good work. I could admit that. I won’t. Not out loud.
Her gaze flicks back to me. “So. How badly are you planning to bruise me before tomorrow?”
“I’m not,” I say, quirking a brow.
Her brows lift. “No?”
“No,” I repeat calmly. “You’re bruised already.”
Color climbs her throat, fast. She recovers just as fast. “Oh,” she says. “That.”
“Not that,” I say. “Emotionally.”
She snorts. “You going to give me a feelings lecture, Lysander?”
My jaw tightens. My name in her mouth shouldn’t hit where it hits.
“I’m going to make sure you live through tomorrow,” I say. “That’s all.”
Her chin lifts at that. She tries to make the movement bored. It’s not. It’s defiance and pride. I fucking love it. She doesn’t get that I see when she fronts, but I notice it all the same.
I cross to the table and set down what I’ve brought. An unloaded duplicate of her sidearm, two empty mags, a training knife, a handkerchief folded tight, and a slim black box.
Her eyes flick to the box first.
“Later,” I tell her.
She sighs heavily. “You always say that when it’s going to be bad.”
“It’s not bad,” I say. “It’s insurance.”
“Same thing,” she says with another eye roll that I pointedly ignore.
I step in front of her, close enough to touch, close enough to feel her breathing. Her pupils are already a little blown — adrenaline, not arousal. Good. If this were arousal-driven I’d send her to bed. We don’t train soft. You don’t retain soft.
Who am I kidding? I’d fuck her here in the floor like rabid animals if she said the word. I swallow thickly, ignoring the way my intrusive thoughts are starting to win.
“Lift the shirt,” I say, voice husky despite my efforts to remain in control.
Her brows arch. “Bold.”
I stare at her, pursing my lips until she gets the point.
