I grunt in response, already pulling my gym bag from the trunk. The weight room is dark when I enter, exactly how I want it. I flip on just enough lights to see what I’m doing, not the harsh fluorescents that illuminate every corner.
The silence is a balm to my frayed nerves. No teammates, no coaches, no Society members watching my every move. Just me and the weights and the chance to exhaust myself into oblivion.
I start with a punishing set of deadlifts, loading the bar with more weight than I typically use. My muscles scream in protest as I pull, but the pain feels good. Clarifying. With each rep, I try to purge the image of Seraphina’s blood mixing with shower water, swirling down the drain.
Moving to the squat rack I load plate after plate. I push myself harder than usual, welcoming the burn that spreads through my quads, the way my lungs fight for air.
Three sets in and my legs are shaking, but I add more weight. Physical pain is cleaner, more honest than whatever clusterfuck is happening in my head. I can control this, can push through it, can master it.
“Going for a new PR?”
I look up to see Cassian standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He’s dressed in his usual workout gear, hair still perfectly styled despite the early hour. Fucker probably wakes up looking like that.
“Just getting some extra work in,” I grunt, dropping into another squat, the bar bending slightly across my shoulders.
Cassian doesn’t say anything else, just moves to the bench press and starts his own routine. That’s what I appreciate about him. He knows when to shut the fuck up.
I finish my set and rack the weight, chest heaving as I grab a towel to wipe my face. The silence between us is comfortable, just the clank of weights and our controlled breathing filling the space.
“You wanna talk about it?” he finally says, not looking at me as he adds another plate to his bar.
“No,” I mutter, dropping the towel.
Cassian nods, about to say something when we’re interrupted by a medium ugly blond.
“Well, well, well! If it isn’t my two favorite emotionally constipated assholes getting their sweat on at the crack of dawn! Anyone need a spot, or are we just jerking off our egos today?”
Asher’s voice echoes through the weight room as he strolls in, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing designer workout gear that probably costs more than most people’s entire wardrobe.
Neither of us responds, and Asher’s smile falters slightly as he reads the room.
“Damn, who died?” he asks, looking between us. “Or did someone’s dick fall off? Because that would explain the funeral vibes in here.”
“Shut the fuck up, Crawford,” Cassian mutters, continuing his reps.
Asher turns his attention to me, eyebrows raised. “Devereux, you look like absolute shit. And that’s saying something since you usually look like God’s gift to humanity.”
“Not in the mood,” I growl, moving to the pull-up bar.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your sister’s little stunt at the basketball game, would it?” Asher asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
I hang from the bar, muscles tensed, then pull myself up in one smooth motion. “She’s not my sister.”
That gets both their attention. Cassian stops mid-rep, the bar hovering above his chest. Asher’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.
“Come again?” Asher says, moving closer. “Because last I checked, the Seraphina Carvelli situation was a big fucking problem precisely because she is your sister.”
I drop from the bar and grab my towel, wiping sweat from my face. “I discreetly got a DNA test done. Not a single fucking shared gene between us.”
“Holy shit,” Asher breathes, a slow grin spreading across his face. “So all that time you were lusting after her?—“
“She wasn’t my sister,” I finish, tossing the towel aside. “But she thought she was. And I let her believe it.”
“And you didn’t think to tell her?” Cassian asks, his tone neutral but his eyes judging the fuck out of me.
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I say, grabbing my water bottle and taking a long drink.
Cassian’s expression darkens. “For how long?”
