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It’s more complicated now, after a year of him appearing when I least expect it and looking at me like I’m still that first sketch under the tree, something he discovered and kept. A year of him calling me “my prince” in that voice and acting like my fury is just another shade he likes on me.

I should’ve killed him months ago, honestly.

It would’ve saved me a lot of stress.

He glances at the ring again, then back at me. “Unless you’re scared.”

I laugh in his face. It’s short and mean and probably a little unhinged, but I can’t help it. “Scared of you?”

His expression doesn’t move. “Should you be?”

That makes me step closer and now we are too close again.

I tip my chin up, refusing to give him even an inch of advantage. “If I break your nose, are you going to cry about it?”

He lowers his head just enough that his voice falls between us, private and dangerous. “If you manage it, I’ll let you lick the blood.”

My hands flex at my sides, and my face burns so violently I’m amazed steam isn’t coming out of my ears. “You’re revolting. Genuinely. Has anyone ever told you that? Because I feel like someone should’ve sat you down and explained that not every thought crawling through your fucked-up skull needs to come out of your mouth.”

He shrugs without answering, and I want to slap that calm off him.

I glance once toward the exit where Dimitri and Alexei disappeared, then back at him. “If I end up killing you in there, your brother will have to explain a very awkward death at dinner.”

“Then I suppose I should make the most of my final moments with you.”

His eyes flash with that devouring amusement I’ve come to hate almost as much as I crave it.

Then he leans back just enough to break the spell and jerks his chin toward the ring. “Come on, my prince. Let me look at you properly.”

I turn toward the ring, refusing to acknowledge the stupid flutter in my stomach as I smile without warmth. “When I kick your ass, try to keep the pathetic fucking whining to a minimum. I have sensitive ears.”

I brush past him toward the ropes, and I can feel his gaze on me like a hand already closing. I hop into the ring first, because if I wait another second I’ll either punch him in the mouth outside of it or do something equally stupid.

I duck through the ropes, head to the corner, and grab two sets of gloves.

I toss a pair at his chest. He catches them one-handed without looking down, then sets them aside.

I blink. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t need them.”

I stare at him like I might genuinely develop a new religion centered around hating him. I’d call it Kentoism, and the first commandment would be: shut the fuck up.

“How exactly,” I ask slowly, “do you plan to box without gloves? Because if your strategy is to look gorgeous and suffer a traumatic defeat, congratulations. You’re already halfway there.”

He stares at me with the most disgustingly lovestruck expression I’ve ever seen. “You think I’m gorgeous?”

Brilliant work, mouth. Really outdone yourself this time. Somebody needs to put a muzzle on me before I ruin my own life. I glare at him, hoping sheer hostility will somehow erase the last ten seconds from existence. Naturally, the bastard just smiles wider and adds, “I don’t want to box.”

I narrow my eyes. “Then what do you want?”

The corner of his mouth curves. “I just want to touch you.”

All thought leaves my body and is replaced by pure violence.

I surge forward and aim straight for his jaw, offended down to the soul. Usually, when I move like that, people react one of two ways: too slow or too messy. Kento does neither.

He catches my wrist. The impact of the stop jolts up my arm. Before I can twist free, he’s already stepped in, turning with my momentum. My shoulder gets pulled forward, my balance shifts, and suddenly he’s behind me, one hand still trapping my wrist while the other settles at my waist.