“Uhm, actually yeah, that’s exactly what I need.” I nod, thrilled I can finally be somewhere other than my velvet prison.
Adrien walks ahead of me toward the corner of the gym, where a punchbag hangs from the ceiling. He grabs a pair of gloves and casually tosses them at my face one by one. I barely catch them.
“I don’t know how to box, Adrien,” I deadpan.
“You want to wander around a house full of men and you don’t know how to throw a punch?” He lifts his eyebrows like it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.
“Wait, I never said that.” I grin.
“Okay, show me.” He taps his own cheek, inviting a hit.
“Oh God, this is gonna be funny.” I slip on the gloves and inhale dramatically.
What follows is complete chaos. I swing and he dodges instantly. I swing again and he ducks like a damn cartoon character. Every time I punch, he’s already in a different ZIP code.
We fuck around like this for a while, he’s laughing so hard he actually snorts once, and that alone nearly kills me. I can’t stop laughing either. We're both out of breath, running around the gym like idiots pretending to fight. I throw one more dramatic punch and he tries to dodge it, but this time he miscalculates and slams straight into the punchbag with his back.
I bend forward, wheezing from laughter. He straightens up and runs a hand through his messy curls.
“Okay, that was really bad, Troubles. You didn’t catch me once!” he complains.
His gaze suddenly flicks behind me and a knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, the kind men give their best friends right before sayingyou’re welcome.
And without a word, he’s gone.
I turn around and, of course, Kasien is leaning on the gym entrance, watching me with infuriating calm.
The dim purple light carves his silhouette out of shadow. I shift fully toward him, boxing gloves still on my hands. I’m in nothing but a sports bra and leggings, barefoot since Adrien insisted it’s better for balance. My breath comes out quick and sharp from all the movement I finally got after almost a week, my skin glowing with sweat along my collarbones, chest, shoulders.
He just stands there, staring at me. He’s wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his wrists, exposing a black leather watch. His loosened tie hangs open enough to reveal the long line of his throat and a hint of chest.
He looks like he just walked out of a billionaire gala, or straight off a crime scene.
I hate how he does this. How he walks in and suddenly the whole room remembers who it belongs to. He’s so stupidly beautiful it feels like a personal attack.
I gather what little courage I have left and take a few steps toward him, stopping five feet away, ready to smack some words in his face. Except my brain short-circuits the moment I’m close. My throat goes dry. My legs are suddenly made of air. He makes me so goddamn nervous it’s embarrassing. And he knows.
He must smell the panic on me, because he pushes off the door and starts walking toward me, slow and deliberate, closing the space between us like he owns every inch of it.
Meanwhile, I accidentally take a step back.
He stops in front of me, towering, overwhelming, his scent hitting me hard and clogging every coherent thought I had left. Leather. Cardamom. Smoke.
Kasien.
“So you don’t mind hanging out with killers anymore, I see.” His voice is low and sharp, sliding right into my bones.
Wait. Is he jealous?
I smile internally.
“If you want to run away again, run. I have zero fucks to give,” he says casually.
Nice try. He says it like he’s carved from stone, but I can hear the crack under it.
“Oh really?” I raise my eyebrows, challenging.
“Oh really.” Not even a blink. His eyes stay on mine, black and unblinking.
