The women dropped their equipment, then stood in the middle of the ring talking. The other woman’s expression was animated, her gestures wide as she spoke to Ariadne. Zervou found himself fascinated by the expression on Ariadne’s face.
Nothing guarded. None of that wariness he was so used to seeing. Everything in her expression was bright and engaged. She nodded along, offered replies Zervou couldn’t hear. Then the woman said something, and Ariadne…laughed.
It was as if all other sound ceased to exist as the echo of her uninhibited, husky laugh made its way to him. Nothing bitter in it. Nothing scathing. Just a pure, happy laugh.
It was the strangest moment, because the sound seemed to land with all the force of a blow, penetrating his chest almost painfully. The only thing he could think to liken it to was the force of the bullet he’d watched slam into his father’s chest.
But it was not a searing pain, or overwhelming fear that ripped through him in this moment. No. It was a dark, clawing need to possess. It was as potent as the need to avenge his father—a goal all these years in the making.
And with both, she was the key.
When she happened to glance over, eyes meeting his, for a moment, it felt like she was the key to everything.
But the ease went out of her expression, and a hint of tension crept into her shoulders.
Frustration filtered into the strange weightless place he’d been. Why should she tense at his arrival? Why should she still look at him with distrust? It was insulting. Infuriating.
And still the pounding need ofwantechoed inside of him like a drum. An eternal beat that had always existed, would always exist. Had existed before her, just waiting to be brought to life.
She turned her attention back to her sparring partner. They spoke for a few more minutes, then collected their gear and got out of the ring. While the other woman headed for the locker room—after tossing a curious glance at him over her shoulder—Ariadne came his way.
“What’s up?” she asked on approach, studying him as though she did not trust any reason he would be here. Her braids were tight, but a few hairs escaped to corkscrew around her face. She was sweaty, a little out of breath, and the claws of need only dug deeper.
“We are going dancing tonight.” Because he wanted his hands on her, and if it was in the name of being seen, he’d decided that was excuse enough.
“Are we?” she returned, eyeing him with that patent wariness that threatened to set his teeth on edge.
“Yes. When you are finished, I will drive you to my estate. I have everything you need to get ready.”
He braced himself for the argument, the refusal. More of that damn pride to get in his way. He prepared to refuse any and all of her potential rejections. This was what must be done, and she had agreed to his plan, so she did not get to say no.
But she offered no rejections or refusals. After a long study of him, she simply shrugged. “All right. I’ll be out in a few.”
Ari stood in one of the bathrooms in Zervou’s house—if one could call this room the size of her apartment something as simple as a bathroom, or this entire place something as simple as ahouse—studying herself in the mirror.
She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about what she saw. On the one hand, she had been taught since she’d been a child not to dress to entice the wrong kind of attention—something she’d begun to realize in her teens was just a false sense of security. Men would be awful no matter what a woman wore.
But it was still a hard mental habit to break. She tended to dress to exaggerate her muscles and downplay the more feminine aspects to her body. She was used to that, comfortable with that, so the brevity of her dress was…awkward almost.
On the other hand, she liked the way she looked in her reflection. She loved boxing and the way it made her feel—strong, powerful, capable of taking any blow. But sometimes, on the rare moments she could think of something beyond survival, the side effects of boxing left her feeling…ugly. Undesirable. Her crooked nose, the bruises, the swelling.
It was why she’d gotten the nose ring and then the belly ring. The pieces of jewelry made her feel…something. She didn’t have all the words for it. Just more herself—a dichotomy of things. Not just muscle and bone, waiting to be crashed into.
There was more to her than survival. Than fight.
This dress added to a sense that she wasmore, because she looked…sexy. There really wasn’t much to the outfit. The skirt was brief, the neckline low. It emphasized her muscular frame, but with the right hairdo and makeup, she could soften that. Make it alluring instead of intimidating. Or perhaps both.
Either way, it was an outfit—particularly with the heels—that would draw attention. She was so used to avoiding attention, it felt a mix of rebellious—a good, exhilarating feeling—andwrong—an uncomfortable amount of nervousness she didn’t like at all.
She could take care of herself, so drawing attention wasn’t such a risk, she reminded herself. Especially since Zervou would be there. She could take all sorts of risks with him as her companion for the evening.
Which led to an uncomfortable realization.
She’d begun to trust him. A mistake, surely, but it was just sort of there. A natural conclusion to enjoying spending dinners with him.
He was slick and arrogant but had a cutting kind of humor to him. She hadn’t seen him enjoy hurting anyone or go out of his way to try to wield his wealth or power. He knew what he wanted and made it happen—and she couldn’t help but respect that. She’d do more of it if she could.
And then there was the way he looked at her. The way he would look at her in this dress. Much the same way he looked at her while she was boxing.
