She lets a bra strap slip, and the flash of her bare shoulder is enough to shatter my control. I force myself to turn away, even as every muscle screams in protest.
My heart pounds in every artery. Loud and impossible to ignore. Since I met her, she’s been with me, this fixed point in my consciousness. Nights fixed with a smile that triggers some dopamine response I can’t rationalize. As tempting as everyperfect curve of hers is, I want that Reese. The woman who snorts when she laughs and gets giddy over fight choreography.
“When I finally have you, Reese”—she blinks rapidly—“and Iwillhave you, I need to know, without a doubt, that you want me as much as I want you. Now, let me take care of you.” I force myself to step away and grab a robe, draping it over her shoulders. The sheets whisper as she sinks into her bed.
I head to the bathroom, gathering up makeup wipes and a hairbrush, and I find sticky notes covering the mirror like confessions.Trust your instincts. Be the leading lady.
Thisis my Reese.
Back at her bedside, I kneel. “Close your eyes.” She does, making these small sounds that hit me straight in the chest as I gently remove her mascara. I move on to her hair, the famous Sinclair mane.
I grip the brush carefully and work slowly through her thick, golden hair. My body burns with an unspoken need. Then the brush catches, and she groans as I gently work out the knot hiding at the nape of her neck. She leans into my touch, her head heavy in my palm.
I’m in so much trouble.
She’s like nicotine. Like air. Like the first time I held my saber.
“There,” I whisper, brushing the strands behind her ears.
Her eyes open, slow and soft, meeting mine. “I miss that smell of yours. All the smoke.”
“I gave it up,” I reply.
She drifts off to sleep without knowing I’d give up more than cigarettes if she asked. Since she started occupying all my empty spaces, I haven’t needed that vice.
For an hour, I linger, haunted by her cabin. Her world, filled with scripts, sword fighting books, and photos of both her polished celebrity and the laughing girl I’m falling for.
When I’m sure she’s asleep, I slip out. The cool air hits my skin like a rebuke.
Ramsey’s eyes find me instantly. Silent, ever-watchful.
“She’s sleeping,” I say, my words falling short.
His gaze narrows, the warning clear:Don’t fuck this up.I nod, but he sees right through me.
Message received.
Walking away feels like ripping out a part of myself. She’s under my skin now, in my blood. And damn it, I want her to stay there.
Chapter 17
Dante
“I should leave.You’re obviously distracted.” Em gestures toward the bench, where my phone vibrates face up. “Must be killing you, missing that tournament to babysit.”
While my teammates are at the World Cup in Bulgaria, I’m stuck here. TheFédération Internationale d’Escrimetournament points that help with Olympic qualifications are slipping away.
I ignore Em; she’s trying to get out of drills. This is our fourth session together, and it’s always the same. She shows up late, bristles at every correction, and leaves early. I’ve tried different approaches: strict technique, free sparring, even letting her attack while I defend.
Nothing seems to stick. And now here we are again, her frustration building like a pressure cooker.
“You’re not bending your back leg anymore,” I say, tapping my blade against the floor. “Again.”
“How much longer?” The borrowed, ill-fitting uniform—scavenged from a former student since she’d refused Coach’s offer to buy her proper gear—hangs loose and awkward on her frame. It’s dark with sweat despite the early hour. I feel a twingeof sympathy watching her struggle with the hand-me-down equipment.
“Povtoreniye, mat’ ucheniya,” I say, quoting Coach’s favorite Russian proverb. “Repetition is the mother of learning. So we’re going to do this until you can do it in your sleep.” I demonstrate but notice my own stance has grown slack, professional standards eroding in this fluorescent-lit purgatory. “This isn’t aimless stabbing. It’s precision. Art.”
“Art, stabbing, whatever.” Her fingers trail along a curved saber with unexpected reverence. “I want to fight.”
