This is the second time in less than twenty-four hours I’ve seen him half-naked, and it’s doing dangerous things to me. My mouth goes dry. I wet my lips without thinking, unable to tear my eyes away from the way his body moves, strong, lethal.
He suddenly stops, turns around, and catches me staring. Again.
Our eyes lock.
He grabs a towel and wipes the sweat from his face and chest, his dark gaze never leaving mine. “You’re back. How did the outing go?”
I shrug, trying to sound casual. “It was fine.”
He drapes the towel around his neck. “I was told you went wedding dress shopping. Have you made up your mind on a dress yet?”
I blink. “You had someone report my every move to you?”
He doesn’t deny it. “Answer the question, Calina.”
“Not yet,” I mutter. “We’re going back in a couple of days.”
Silence stretches between us. The air feels heavier with every second we stand there staring at each other.
He clears his throat. “How about you join me?”
I raise an eyebrow. “To do what?”
“I could teach you boxing. Self-defense.”
I stare at him, surprised. The offer feels… genuine. And then it hits me. He's probably thinking about the way I flinched the other night. About what my father used to do to me. He wants me to be able to defend myself.
He adds quietly, “Only if you want to.”
I hesitate for only a second before nodding. “Yeah… I’d like that.”
If Maxim is the one teaching me self-defense, then at least I know he won’t be the one I need to defend myself against. Right?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Calina
I slip back into my bedroom, heart still racing. I quickly hide the gun Irina gave me under the mattress, tucking it deep where no one will find it.
Then I strip out of my dress and from the many items I got, I change into a simple black workout tank top and leggings. The clothes feel more like me, comfortable.
I head straight back to the gym before I can talk myself out of it.
The moment I step through the door, Maxim’s gaze snaps to me. He’s still shirtless, sweat glistening on his chest and abs, muscles pumped from the bag. His eyes rake over me slowly, darkening with something I can't read.
“Okay,” he says, voice low. “Ready?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t waste time. He starts teaching me basic self-defense, how to break a wrist grab, how to use my elbows and knees, how to create space when someone bigger has me pinned.
I already know most of it; Artyom and Mikhail drilled these same moves into me and Milana when we were younger.
When I execute a clean wrist escape and follow it with a sharp elbow strike to the air, Maxim stops mid-sentence, eyebrows raised.
“Not bad,” he mutters, sounding genuinely surprised. “Where did you learn that?”
“My brothers,” I answer, a little smug. “They made sure we could handle ourselves.”
