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I watch him cut through a narrow alley, and my heart skips a beat before I follow him in. Halfway through, he shoulders open a battered door and jerks his chin toward the shadowed interior. “Stay close to me.”
Unease flutters down my spine, keeping me in place as one pressing question bounces off the inside of my skull—What are you doing?
I glance down at my bare toes and can’t come up with an answer.
“You coming or what?” the stranger demands. A hint of impatience seeps into his voice, and I look up to find his eyes narrowed—but fixed somewhere over my shoulder. I copy him but discover only an overflowing trash can.
Regardless, he’s on edge. His unease itches at my nerves, making me fidget with the lid of my coffee cup. Maybe I’m not the only one expecting to be followed?
But if Father’s security detail is on my tail, they seem content to observe for now.
“Earth to Blondie.”
He’s talking to me, utilizing a nickname that makes my belly flip. Am I insulted? I’m not sure. His voice is softer than it should be, I think. As if it’s more than a harmless moniker, but a name meant only for me.
“Come on.” He barrels through the doorway impatiently.
Shaking my head to clear it, I force myself to take another step. Then another until I approach the entrance. He lurks just inside, holding the door open. His bulk alone nearly takes up the entirety of a small hallway. It’s dark beyond him. A strange smell lingers in the air that I can’t name. Something salty. Musky. Sweat?
I head toward it absently and nearly trip.
“Watch your step.”
In vain of his warning, my foot hits the edge of a ledge descending to a lower level. As soon as I sway, he’s by my side, placing a steadying hand on my hip to keep me upright. With his guidance, I stagger down a few more steps before the floor evens out. There, he retreats, and my only souvenir of his touch is a persistent, prickling heat that doesn’t fade.
“Where are we?” I blink until I can make out a large room beyond him. Square. Orange walls. Concrete floors.
Artificial lights illuminate the space where a black mat dominates the center. Scattered weights and exercise equipment have been stacked in the corners. A flicker of movement draws my attention to my left, just in time to witness him striping his sweatshirt.
Suddenly, my coffee cup slides against sweat-soaked fingers. I barely tighten my grip in time, and my reward is a lukewarm splash of liquid over my wrist, along with plenty of shame to heat my cheeks.
“See something you like?” He holds my gaze while tossing the gray hoodie aside. “It’s rude to stare at a man like he’s a piece of meat.”
“No,” I choke out, barely able to maintain eye contact.
Some might objectify him as a piece of toned, veryrippedmeat—and that’s an understatement. What had been disguised as shapeless bulk before is pure, solid muscle, streaked with silvery scars and ebony tattoos.
He’s beautiful in a broken way. Like Hale’s battered cigarette pack drawing. The jagged lines paint his skin, nearly every inch of it. One design in particular spans his entire back—a giant relief of a skeleton riding a black horse with a mane curling around his ribcage. They taught us a story in Bible Study once—the four horsemen of the apocalypse. I guess he took that tale literally.
“You gonna stare or make yourself useful?” He gestures toward a corner of the room, and his rippling muscles distort the horseman, robbing some of the intensity from the design. “Come on. I need to spar.”
I sputter like an idiot. “S-spar?”
“Chop chop!” He points to the corner again, and I notice an object lying there. It’s square and made of the same material as the center mat, almost like a pillow. “Hold it up,” he barks.
I set my coffee down to comply, and he dishes out another order.
“Get onto the mat.”
Trapped in the narrow space, I swallow as he advances. While I wasn’t looking, he grabbed a roll of gauze. As he moves, he wraps a length of it around both fists, forming a makeshift glove over the bloodied surfaces. Then he claps harshly to command my attention. “Square your stance.”
He scoffs when I don’t move.
“I… I don’t know what that means,” I blurt out.
He rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake. Spread your legs.”
He advances, and I jump, wrestling with the choice to stay or run. Too late. He’s already nudging one of my feet with the toe of his foot. His nearness this time hits differently with his chest bare.
