I hit it again. And again. The burn spreads down my arms as sweat runs down my spine, but the tension inside me refuses to ease.
Because no matter how much I want her, she kept something from me.
Every swing of my fist is an attempt to bleed off the frustration twisting in my chest, the anger that’s been eating at me since she looked me straight in the eye and lied.
Why didn’t she mention him? Does he mean something to her?
My fist cracks against the bag again, sending it swinging hard.
Who the hell is he?
Another hit. The leather thuds beneath my gloves as the bag rolls back toward me.
I imagine his hands on her. Touching her. Taking something that doesn’t belong to him.
I’ve done nothing but try to earn her trust. And this is how she repays me?
A savage growl tears out of my chest as my breathing goes rough and uneven.
It’s a sick kind of obsession, the way I still want her. But maybe there was a reason she didn’t tell me about him. Maybe he’s tied to her past.
Or maybe I’m telling myself whatever I need to hear just so I can keep her.
My fist crashes into the bag, the jolt traveling straight up my arms.
Because I already know the truth.
The second I close my eyes tonight…she’ll be there again. Pulling me in the way she always does.
SLOANE
With a frustrated huff, I shove the comforter off my body and swing my feet onto the floor. The red numbers on the clock beside my bed glow in the dark, telling me it’s well past midnight, and I haven’t slept a minute.
Every time I close my eyes, he’s there. The way he looked at me earlier. The way his hands felt on my body. The heat between us when we almost kissed. The memory wraps around my thoughts and refuses to let go, pulling me right back into that moment no matter how hard I try to shake it off.
Ti vsegda budish moya.
What was he saying?
I head toward the door, knowing there’s no point trying to sleep again until I’ve worn myself out. If I crawl back into bed now, I’ll just lie there staring at the ceiling until morning.
Maybe I’ll grab something to eat and watch a little TV. Or maybe I’ll wander the house and see if I can spot any cameras I missed earlier while everything is quiet.
The guard barely glances at me as I walk past and head straight for the kitchen, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am. I fill a glass with water and lean against the counter while I drink, the silence of the house settling around me before I rinse the cup, dry it, and return it to the cabinet.
Instead of heading back upstairs, my feet carry me down a different corridor, one I haven’t explored yet. The hallway stretches, lined with closed doors hiding whatever is inside them, until I spot a staircase heading down.
My intuition tells me to go back upstairs, but I take the steps anyway, the air getting cooler as I descend.
Halfway down, I hear it.
A heavy thud. Then another. The sound reverberates faintly through the space, like someone hitting something with force or maybe working out.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I follow the sound down as it grows clearer, the steady rhythm of impact broken now by the low groan of a man.
When I reach an open doorway, I freeze.
Kirill stands a few feet away with his back to me, shirtless, his fists slamming into a hanging punching bag with a force that makes the chain above it rattle.
