Because the last time this fuzzy sense of contentment existed behind my ribs, my world shattered, plunging me into a darkness I never thought I’d escape.
Until Kate.
TWENTY-FIVE | KATE
My feet pound against the gravel, the thick walls of green closing in on me. Anxiety sears my burning lungs, my mind racing in every direction, not knowing where he is.
I bolt left, trying to train my ears to his footsteps smashing against the earth in tune with mine. But it doesn’t matter, I can’t hear anything over my rapid heartbeat echoing in my ears and my ragged, uneven breaths.
This was his plan.
Intuition and vigilance can escape you the second your mind is racing as fast as your blood.
In a moment when it matters.
It’s more realistic this way if I’m terrified.
With each step, I’m aware of the straps plastered to my thigh. With its constant company, I don’t feel completely powerless and terrified of a weapon that only brought me pain. I’m learning to wield it.
Claim back my power.
If working out with Preston these last few weeks, as the sun comes up, has taught me anything, it’s that I can be scrappy.
His words, not mine.
He gave me the extra dose of determination I needed right before I found myself straddling his sweaty torso on the mat in the gym with my knife positioned above his heart.
It was empowering. Freeing.
As if I wasn’t enslaved to my circumstance anymore and could fight if I needed to. I’d rather die raising hell than be the docile girl I was when I left Oregon.
The way he peered at me with pride, with a loopy smile like he was mesmerized by me trying to kick his ass, increased my confidence. I can’t really beat him. Not in the literal sense anyway. His frame not only towers over mine, but he also has the muscle and mass that could squash me in an instant.
Preston is a unique breed.
A man created to crush and annihilate anything in his path, but he’s been downplaying his skill just enough that I have to work extra hard to get him where I want him—a slave to my blade. On the other hand, he’s not so soft that, if I found myself in a real fight for my life, I’d be entirely vulnerable.
I feel stronger than I have in a long time. Not just physically, but mentally. As if increasing my agility and awareness of what my body can do has chased away the powerless fog that poisoned me for far too long. Sure, there’s still a muted sense of paranoia hovering over me, but I’m not as terrified knowing Xander is out there somewhere looking for me.
I have a long way to go, but I’ve learned a lot in this short amount of time.
Also, I’ve had to work my ass off against the added distraction of Preston’s hard, nearly naked body gliding against mine—being pressed into mine. Every. Single. Morning.
He’d be in the gym before me, taking out his frustration on that punching bag with such controlled movements. Beads of sweat would slide down the ridges of his tattooed back and histemple. The pure force and raw masculinity radiating from him were enough to stun me speechless the second I stepped through the door.
Then, like every morning, as if he’s taunting me, he would turn, letting me get an eyeful of the way his gym shorts hang low on his V-line that leads to his cock that I told him to touch while he made me come. Not to mention the beautiful ink that stretches across his bulging planes, where that six-pack of abs leads to the dark, happy trail that dips below the hem of his shorts that my fingers buzz to follow. To touch. I haven’t seen all of him yet, and it’s pure torture. His body alone holds enough power to soak me on the spot, which is entirely unfortunate since the entire session not only tests my physical ability but also my mental stamina to keep myself from grabbing the hard erection he carries around when our bodies touch.
Like the other day when I found myself straddling him on the mat, our heaving breaths in unison in the otherwise quiet gym. His abdomen flexed below my core, resting on top of him. Preston’s hands started gliding along my knees, bracing him, moving them upward until he cupped my thighs, pressing his fingers into my heated flesh, abuzz with need.
I’m not stupid, I know he’s been going easy on me. He’s a mafia boss; he could snap me like a twig with those hands that I used to think could only inflict pain and torture. But not when I’ve felt how tenderly they hold me before we somehow pull ourselves apart to go our separate ways for the day. And I say tenderly hold me because even when he has his arms snaked around me while I’m fighting him with my knife, the air between us is charged and filled with sexual tension that is bound to snap and mark us both at any moment.
Unfortunately, I know he’s letting me take my time after seeing my scars and knowing my trauma. The thought that he cares so deeply about making me feel safe and valued spurs onthe feeling that he is different. Like being wrapped in his arms is the closest to home I’ll ever get.
Moral of the story about the last few weeks: he’s about as distracting as a dark god emerging from the depths of Hell. I know I should fight for my life, but I can’t help but want him to pull me under and devour me with that mouth that beautifully haunts my dreams.
“I’d say you’re dangerously captivated by your curiosity and wanted to see what it would be like to dance with the dark.”
If it were with him, I would.
