Chapter sixteen
Ingrid
The gym was alive with the sound of boxing gloves striking bodies the next day. The buzzing mirrored the knot tightening in my stomach. I shouldn’t have been here, not after what I’d heard.
“We need to look into her father… figure out what the hell is actually going on. A lawyer and an accountant can’t be moving up in this city this quickly.”
Tristian’s voice had been echoing in my head since I’d overheard his call. He was looking into my father. Part of me was terrified he’d find the truth—the bruises, the control, the rot—while the other part of me was terrified of what my father would do if he found out. But I was Tristian’s assistant… his handler, his shadow. And despite the fear, there was a magnetic pull to him that I couldn’t resist.
The rhythmicthwackof leather hitting flesh drew my eyes to the ring. Tristian was a blur of controlled violence, sparring with his coworker James. Sweat glistened off his tensed muscles, his movements so precise they were almost beautiful. He fought like he could orchestrate the space around him, forcing his opponent to bend to his will.
James landed a glancing blow, and for a second, Tristian’s eyes flashed—dark, hungry, and dangerous. I shivered at thought of being on the other side of those fists. When they finished, Tristian hopped over the ropes, his breathing barely labored. He walked toward me, andinstinctively, I reached out without even thinking. He caught my hand, his palm rough and hot against mine, and led me toward his corner.
“You okay, doll? Look like you’re a thousand miles away,” he muttered.
“I was… watching you,” I whispered.
“Yeah? Was I any good?”
I’m sure he already knew the answer to that question.
“You were… really good,” I whispered, my face going warm as I didn’t mention the flare of heat that had surged through me alongside the awe and fear.
He took his bag from where he’d stowed it under the bench and began pulling out his gear. He withdrew something from near the bottom and handed it to me. A sketchbook.
“Well, soon enough you’re going to get bored,” he said. “This might keep you busy. It’s an old book… but I could use new ideas for color schemes. If you want to fill them in.”
I took the book, touched by the gesture. It was a piece of him, his art, his mind he was letting me into again. I sat on the bench and opened it, losing myself in the intricate lines of his designs while he moved to the heavy punching bag. I watched him between admiring the strokes of the colored pencils, mesmerized by the power and precision he had all at once.
“Well, aren’t you pretty?”
The voice was oily, slick with a confidence that made my skin crawl. I looked up to find a man leaning over me, his smile not reaching his eyes that were dragging over my body.
I was fully dressed in my white off the shoulder knit sweater and jeans but under his gaze I felt exposed.
Crack.
The sound of Tristian’s gloves hitting the floor was like a gunshot. I flinched as he stepped into my space, his presence an oncoming storm.
“Get away from her, Brandon,” Tristian said, his voice dangerously quiet.
So this was the man who Tristian had gotten into a fight with when he landed himself in a prison cell. Only then did I notice the faded bruises covering his face. My breath caught, a wave of panic rushing over me.
But Brandon didn’t back off. He sat right next to me, his hand reaching out to push my hair over my shoulder. I froze as his fingertips brushed my neck.
“Got yourself little girlfriend, huh? How cute. I wonder if Darragh will like her.”
“Ingrid.” Tristian’s voice was a low growl. “Go with James. Now.”
“R-right now?” I stammered.
“Yes, doll. Get your things.” He pulled me up, his grip firm on my elbow but not hurting me. “I’ll meet you in the locker room.”
Part of me wanted to stay—but what good would that do? If Tristian got into a fight, I could hardly protect him. Besides, he didn’tneedprotecting; he’d proven easily that he could handle himself, in the ring and outside of it. Brandon’s bruises were evidence enough of that. So I hurried away, casting only a brief backward look to see both Tristian’s shoulders already squaring up, Brandon’s expression lifted in a cruel smirk, Tristian’s hard steel.
James led me to the locker room before stepping back out, and I sat on the wooden bench, clutching the sketchbook to my chest.
A loud, metallic crash echoed from the gym, followed by the sound of something shattering. The noises were only amplified when the doors swung open and James strode back in, expression tense. I didn’t utter a word.
