“Good night, Prime Minister.”
I leave the stuffy room, letting the door close with more force than strictly necessary. My bodyguards fall in behind me as I stalk through the corridors of Parliament House, my blood humming with frustrated energy.
All that ceremony, all those promises, and now...
An hour later, I’m still burning with anger and frustration as I lay into a heavy punching bag with more force than technique. The palace gym is empty and silent but for the sound of each punch. My fists carry the weight of my frustration—at politics, at compromise, at the constant fucking dance I must do between duty and desire.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Sweat drips down my back, my shirt since soaked through.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Your form’s slipping.”
I freeze mid-punch, my heart lurching at that familiar voice. Rangi leans against the doorframe, still in his ceremonial clothes though he’s since shed the formalperipuni.
“I wasn’t aware I needed a critique.” The words come out harsher than intended.
He pushes off the frame, moving toward me with a fluid grace that makes my mouth go dry. “No, but you look like you could use a sparring partner. Something tells me the bag isn’t giving you what you need.”
His words set off a cascade of unbidden images—his body pressed against mine, hands pinning my wrists, the heat of his skin under my palms.
What Ineed.
The thought alone makes my blood run hotter, frustration and desire twisting together until I can’t separate them. What Ineedis to stop thinking about what his hands would feel like on my body instead of on a punching bag. What Ineedis to regain control of my thoughts, my pulse, my treacherous imagination that keeps conjuring his mouth against mine.
I turn back to the bag, throwing another combination with more force than precision, knuckles stinging with the impact. “I’m fine,” I growl, the words coming out rough and strained. Even to my own ears, I sound like a man on the edge.
“Sure, you are.” He moves to hold the bag steady. “That’s why you’re trying to murder innocent equipment.”
His presence so close makes it hard to focus. I can smell the lingering scent of herbs and smoke from the ceremony, their combination mixing with something distinctly him.
“What’s wrong?”
I thump the bag hard, desperately ignoring the way my body reacts to his closeness. “The Prime Minister is concerned the bill won’t pass if we try to protect all the sites.”
Rangi looks unsurprised.
I punch again, relishing the pain in my knuckles. “It’s not acceptable. Failure isn’t acceptable. The Prime Minister?—”
“—is a politician,” he interrupts. “And politicians will always choose the safe path.” His dark eyes meet mine. “But warriors? We choose therightpath, even when it’s hard.”
I drop my hands, breathing hard. “And what path would you choose?”
The question carries more weight than I intend. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.
“Right now?” He steps around the bag, into my space. “I’d choose to help you work off some of that tension. Unless you’re worried about getting your ass kicked?”
I should say no. I have duties, responsibilities, a thousand reasons to maintain distance. But the anger and frustration humming in my veins needs an outlet.
I don’t even consider the dark bit of desire that simmers under my skin. “You never could take me down in training.”
His lips curve into that dangerous smile I remember from deployments. “Care to test that theory?”
This is a terrible idea.
But I’m already moving into position on the mats.
