I push open the door and step inside.
The place stinks of sweat even outside of business hours, but during?
During it’s so pungent my nose involuntarily scrunches up only a few steps past the threshold. It’s almost strong enough to make me gag as I catch some seriously bad BO in the air too.
Looks like I’ll be breathing through my mouth while I’m here.
All I have to do is find Killian, get the keys, and then make it back to the studio. In and out as fast as possible.
But while the gym appears large before it’s open for the day, it feels twice as huge once standing inside and surrounded by the men who train here.
The space is cavernous and filled with punching bags and speed bags and a full-sized boxing ring in the center. The walls are lined with mirrors and motivational posters featuring muscled men with inspirational quotes underneath.
There’re weight sets and an area where a man furiously jump ropes, the rope itself a blur.
I blink, immediately disoriented and deeply aware of one thing.
The gym is full of men.
…only men.
My stomach clenches as my gaze scans the large open-spaced area, and I take in the two dozen plus guys in the middle of their workouts. Many of them shirtless and slicked with sweat.
Many bulging with muscles and thick necks. Others older in track suits with glowers on their faces as they bark motivation at the men they’re training.
Some of them spar against each other, fists wrapped in tape or shoved into gloves. They deliver fast blows and duck and dive as their opponent counters with punches of their own.
The air is heavy with testosterone. It’s filled with aggressive energy that surrounds me and makes it hard to draw a breath.
The last time I was surrounded by men, I was in Fedorov’s custody. I was nothing more than a possession that he—and his men—could use whenever the whim struck them.
As I hover where I am, suddenly lost, a wave of heat rushes me. It’s dizzying and disorienting and enough to make my pulse race.
I catch the gaze of a broad-shouldered bald man dripping sweat as he pauses in the middle of beating up on a punching bag. He openly stares, a curious glint flickering in his eyes.
He’s not the only one.
As I quickly look away, I find myself on the receiving end of more looks. More glances of interest as men stop mid-workout for a look at the woman who’s strolled into their sacred space.
I don’t belong here. What was I thinking?!
I stagger a step back, turning to go when one of them calls out to me.
“Yo cutie!” he catcalls. He’s whistled for my attention. “You lost?”
Laughter ripples through the gym, another overwhelming reminder of the past. So surreal it makes me question if I’m back in Fedorov’s clutches, once again forced to be mocked and ridiculed.
Once again forced to be treated like an object and nothing more.
The walls feel like they’re closing in, the mirrors reflecting my terrified face back at me from a dozen different angles.
The noise of the gym warps and distorts, fists hitting leather blurring into the sounds of boots on concrete and doors slamming and rough Russian voices in the dark.
Come here, little girl. Fedorov wants to see you.
Don’t fight it. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be?—
Panic grows as my heart beats faster and I move to run off, then trip over my own two feet. The ground rushes up at me as I collide with it, and my backpack goes sailing out of reach.
