“You smell good,” I blurt out, desperate to shift the subject away from Beckett’s ass.
Pierce’s expression shifts, gesturing to the tape across his nose. “Can’t smell a thing right now. Doc says it’s healing, but everything’s just… blank.” He says it casually, but it upsets him.
I nod, suddenly awkward again. “Must be weird.”
“It’s shit,” he agrees. “Everything tastes like cardboard too.”
Across the room, Beckett has moved on to a different exercise that doesn’t involve his ass. Thank god.
“Do you work out?” Pierce asks.
I snort. “Does walking to the bus stop count?”
His eyes drop to my body, a quick sweep that doesn’t feel invasive, just assessing. “Gotta get you’re your steps in..”
“Right,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself. “So, what do you have people do? Some ‘skinny omega’ routine?”
“I don’t train people to be skinny.” There’s an edge of disgust in his voice like I said the exact wrong thing.
“I was just—”
“I train people to be strong,” he continues, cutting me off. “I’m tired of omegas coming in here thinking they need to shrink themselves to be attractive. That bullshit comes from fashion magazines and insecure alphas who need to feel bigger than their partners.”
“I was joking.”
His expression softens slightly. “Sorry. Sore spot.”
“Clearly,” I mutter.
He studies me for a moment longer. “You don’t need to be skinnier. But everyone benefits from being stronger.”
“I’m not exactly powerhouse material.”
“Strength isn’t just about muscle mass,” he explains. He steps away from the wall we’ve been leaning against. “Come on. We haveto do something productive since Beckett’s not showing off his ass anymore.”
Before I can protest, he’s walking toward a rack of dumbbells. I follow, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
Pierce selects two small weights and holds them out to me. “These are just five pounds each. We’ll start with a simple shoulder press. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart,” he instructs, moving behind me. “Elbows bent, weights at shoulder height.”
I try to mimic what he’s describing, feeling clumsy and exposed. Pierce makes a small sound of dissatisfaction and steps closer. Suddenly, his chest is nearly touching my back, his arms coming around to adjust my posture. His hands encircle my wrists, repositioning them.
“Like this,” he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair near my ear. “Keep your core tight.”
His palm presses briefly against my stomach. Heat floods my body. His scent wraps around me. Fuck me, am I already sweating? A voice in my head screams that this is a bad idea, that I should step away, that this is the man responsible for Reed’s death. But my body doesn’t listen, leaning back into his warmth.
“Now press up. Slow and controlled,” he says, his voice rougher than before.
He guides my arms through the motion, the movement bringing my back fully against his chest. Every point where our bodies touch feels like it’s burning through my clothes.
“Good,” he says, stepping away abruptly. “Now do ten more on your own.”
What am I even doing here? I suck at revenge. Reed would be so disappointed.
Reed would be stoked.
I keep moving my arms as that terrifying thought races through my brain.
No. Reed’s dead because of them. And all the bad things happened because of it.
