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“Sounds like you’re afraid to get your ass kicked by a girl.”
I laugh softly and let my gaze roam over her body. God, she’s beautiful, toned and strong and yet still soft in all the right places. I want to take her back into the extra bedroom and pin her down against the sheets and kiss her until she screams, but instead she’d rather try to punch me in the face.
Not that I can blame her.
She’s in this shit because of me.
And it helps that I like when she tries to hurt me.
“Do you think your sister would approve of us fighting in her building’s courtyard?”
“I doubt Reina cares about what her neighbors think.” She leans against the kitchen counter. “Speaking of which, where is she?”
I shrug and glance at the door. “Left early and hasn’t been back. Maybe she’s out getting us bagels.”
“Yeah, right, she’s going to return with full-on breakfast sandwiches and coffee. Then we’ll cuddle on the couch and watchThe Goonieson TV all afternoon.” She sighs looks longingly at the ratty couch. I note that there is no TV in the apartment at all. So exceedingly French.
“Seriously, agapi mou. We need to rest and make plans.”
“No, you need to make plans. I need to take my frustration out on someone.” She jabs a finger at me. “You woke this up in me, remember? You got me all into fighting and stuff. This is your fault.”
“Okay, that’s true.”
“Face the consequences of your actions, take some responsibility, and let me punch you in the face.”
I laugh and want to keep arguing. There are a dozen reasons why we shouldn’t do any training today, chief among them the fact that we’re wanted by my father and a major crime lord’s mafia family, and there’s always the slim-but-there chance they might spot us outside. It’s a small risk, but still, risk isn’t worth taking right now when the downsides are so steep.
But I can’t say no to her. I’ve done horrible things in my life, hurt people, stolen from people, burned down buildings and killed without remorse—and saying no to this girl feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
When did this happen? When did Adrienne go from a burden to something more?
She fills my heart now and I can’t stop it from beating deeper into me.
“I’ll get changed,” I say. “Start warming up and find us a good spot outside.”
She brightens like a spotlight. “Perfect, thank you, it’s going to be great. I promise I won’t punch you too hard.” She goes to move past me but I grab her wrist and pull her against me.
My fingers brush her lower back. A voice in my head screams,you’re going too far. I kiss her neck and ignore it. “Punch as hard as you’d like, little killer, but you have to promise me that if I tell you to get your ass inside, you’ll do it. No arguing, no fighting. No bullshit. Understand?”
“I love it when you’re all big and bad and bossy, you know that?”
“Stop. Tell me you understand.”
“I understand, Peter.”
“Good girl.” I kiss her gently and she bites my lip. I grunt in surprise at the pain and she slips out of my grasp, already hurrying outside, grinning like a maniac.
I find her ten minutes later in a cleared-out section of grass under a shade tree in an alley between our building and the one next door. She’s stretching and I let myself admire her long arms, her lovely legs, the muscles in her back and shoulders. When she catches me looking, she stands up and beams with her hands on her hips. “You gonna stare or are you gonna try to kick my ass?”
“I thinktryis the wrong word.” I put my hands up in a fighting stance. “More like, I’m going to wipe the floor with you, and you’ll thank me when I’m done.”
We spend the next half hour sparring. We go light at first, mostly just footwork and striking, moving around each other in a tight circle. I put her through all the drills, get her sweating and out of breath, before we fight for real.
I don’t love anything more in the world than letting my body take over. My mind falls away and I sink into my skin as we dance around each other, kicking, punching, trying to find openings. Adrienne’s a lot better than she used to be when we first started, but I still have to hold back to make sure I don’t crack her jaw in half, but these training lessons need to teach her something, which means I’m still hitting with some force. If I went all-out every time, I’d knock her out before she had a chance to see what she did wrong. But still, even fighting her at 10 percent strength, it’s like a beautiful dance.
I can sit back and admire her and let my feelings for her grow and grow, fertilized in hard work, watered with sweat and devotion.
She darts at me, fists flying. I block two punches, duck another, and come in at her. I strike her midsection, barely pulling my fist, and she dances back as she tries to catch her breath, but I don’t give her a chance. I charge forward and slam her down onto the grass.
