by Vic Tyler
It’s not too difficult to avoid her since she goes to school, and I’m out doing West’s bidding or in my room or somewhere else in this huge mansion.
I go to the gym when I know she’s not anywhere in the complex, but it’s not like I can determine where she is during the weekends, so I go whenever. Like now.
Initially, I debated talking to her. To say hi, at the very least. Since we’ll be living under the same roof again for the foreseeable future.
Honestly, that sounds like a terrible idea. These past few days have been hard enough.
Maybe I should move out and get my own place. It’d be inconvenient not to have maid service, but if it’d uncomplicate this whole thing with Adriana, it’d be for the better.
It doesn’t seem like she particularly wants to talk to me. She hasn’t said a word, and she hasn’t smiled at me either.
She must’ve been hanging around this place too often because she’s gotten too good at keeping that expressionless look on her face.
Even then, there’s no way she still has a crush on me when I ghosted her for two years. That’s a hell of a long time, and at her age, that time period is even longer.
She might feel indifferent. The thought makes my chest ache dully, but it’d be for the better. I’ll take a clean cut from her any day over reopening old wounds. Or creating new ones.
I’m not surprised when I see Adriana and Turan in the gym when I arrive.
Just my luck.
They’re by the sparring mats, talking. It looks like they just got here too.
Sighing, I head over to grab some weights. It’s not like I have a good excuse for suddenly leaving, so acting normal and going about my own business is the best course of action. I’ll just cut my workout short and come back later.
Of course, Turan won’t let me.
He spots me before I’m able to start and calls me over.
I eye him warily before begrudgingly going.
After that dirty trick he pulled last time, he knows I’m not unaffected by Adriana’s presence, so I don’t want to give him fodder. But I might as well go see what he wants.
And when he tells me, I’m dumbfounded.
No fucking way.
“So how about it, Damien?” Turan’s eyes gleam above his irritating smirk, and I want to punch him so goddamn bad. “You’ve learned a bit while you were gone, and she can do with a new opponent. One round. An instructional fight.”
The disbelief in Adriana’s expression is quickly masked, and she clenches her jaw with resolve as she faces me.
I haven’t said one goddamn word to her, and now I have to touch her?
I mentally reel back.
Wait, what?
We’d just be sparring. A fight. It’s something I’ve done thousands of times, and I’ve never thought about it as touching before.
My eyes narrow at Turan. Why is he insisting on sparring? Isn’t he supposed to be teaching her self–defense?
When we spar, we simulate fights to the death.
I don’t fucking do instructional fights, and I sure as hell don’t want to hurt Adriana.
“That’s not a good idea,” I say flatly, keeping my face blank. It’s a fucking terrible idea. “You shouldn’t be pitting anyone from the Twelve against a civilian.”
I’m not sure what I said wrong, but Adriana’s face etches with anger. I arch an eyebrow at the sudden blaze igniting her eyes.
A smirk threatens to distort my face.
Well, good to know the little squirt’s still got that spark of determination. I bet she still jumps on people and tries to tackle them.
Too bad I’ve lost that privilege with her, although sparring with her might be pretty damn close.
“You think you’re hot shit now, don’t you?” she asks sarcastically. “Think you’re too good for the rest of us?”
Turan bursts into laughter while I look coolly at her. “I’ll take on anyone who knows what they’re doing, but I don’t pick on civilians.”
The heat radiates off her as she burns with rage.
So she hates being called a civilian. It’s the best goddamn thing she can be, so why does that bother her?
She snarls through gritted teeth, “I’ve sparred with every other member of the Twelve —” I’m a little startled to hear that, but I don’t show it. “— and I’ve even sparred with West —” Alright, now I’m really fucking surprised. “— so get off your high fucking horse and get on the mat.”
I watch incredulously as she stomps away, and Turan slaps my back.
“She’s something, eh?” He grins. “If she were anyone else, I’d recommend recruiting her.”
I’m radiating murder now as I glare at him.
She needs to be kept out of this life, not encouraged to fucking join it.
“She’s a kid,” I hiss. “A civilian teenager.”
He arches an eyebrow, turning his gaze to her. Then, he looks at me again, a nasty glint flashing in his eyes.
“Don’t get too carried away.” He bares his teeth in a menacing smile that splits his face. “She is a civilian.”
God, I want to kill him for playing around with her. This asshole.
I exhale as I step onto the mat and make my way over. I’ll take a few hits, throw a few light punches, knock her down, and pretend to give a little struggle before making her tap out.
Taking deep, slow breaths, I ease my anger and resentment so I can focus.
Focus on not hurting her. Go easy. Light and soft.
As soon as I get into position, she makes her move.
A split second later, I stare in disbelief, my arms reflexively up from blocking her lightning fast kick.
My mind is racing, analyzing.
There was a threatening weight behind it. Nowhere near the hardest kick I’ve had to block, but I’d still get a concussion if I let that connect with my head.
It had to be a fluke.
I’m struggling to wrap my mind around it. But my body’s thrumming with the awareness that it was too practiced to be a mistake.
When her next hit comes, I realize where Turan’s smugness stems from.
She keeps coming. I take more hits than I should, not even dodging the easy ones.
I don’t want to believe it.
My head is struggling to make sense of Adriana being a fighter. An opponent. A threat.
She’s almost as fast as Jura, stronger than Kitty, and Turan’s trained her expertly.
He’s right.
She could become one of us.
As soon as the thought processes in my head, my mind shuts down, and I let my instincts take over.
There’s no time to be thinking, and I’ve taken too many hits, my muscles are protesting, my bones aching.
I underestimated her completely.
When I finally go on the offensive, driving my knee into her side, Adriana’s eyes widen fractionally, and I falter.
Shit.
My head flies back when her fist connects with my jaw.
Double shit. That fucking hurt.
I jump back far enough that, if she moves, I’ll be able to see it clearly because goddamn, she makes blinking feel like a mistake.
Beautiful and deadly. I’ve missed a lot these past few years.
Suddenly, I’m thankful that I left. The me of two years ago wouldn’t have been happy to potentially be outdone by a civilian.
A girl.
Adriana.
Still, I know if I go all out, I’ll hurt her. She’s posed as more of a challenge than I anticipated, which was no challenge at all, but she’s still got years to go before she has a chance at beating me.
Brief wonder flickers through my head. Is this how West feels?
Then, my vision reddens.
Is this his master plan? To train Adriana to fucking join Venti? Trap her in it once and for all?
No. No, no, no. Never.
I won’t let it happen.
Energy vibrates through me, and I push off the floor,
charging straight at her.
She tenses, still unused to my attacks, and I use the opening to test her.
I swing my fist towards her head, just slow enough to give her time to block it, which she does.
Hooking my foot behind her ankle, I kick with a high follow through, knocking her down.
She crashes onto the floor, and I grab her legs to keep her from getting up, keeping her from securing any stability on the ground.
I mount her, keeping her torso trapped tightly between my knees and calves. And when her hands shoot up and nearly sock me again, I shackle her wrists and pin them above her head.
She squirms and struggles, trying to find some kind of opening, to no avail.
I can’t help smirking when she refuses to give up. “You’ve got no way out.”
She glares from under me. “I won’t know until I try.”
I laugh but let her continue trying anyway.
When she finally goes limp, exhausted, I let go of her wrists and sit up. “Good jo—”
I crumple over as searing, white–hot pain shoots straight up my spine and into every single nerve of my body. My groin feels like it exploded.
She fucking punched me in the balls.
I see specks and stars, and my head floats like I’m going to heaven.
Well, that’s an obvious fucking lie. Which means my body’s mocking me for the pain I feel.
I hear myself groan aloud. The thud of my head and back slamming into the ground feels like a love tap compared to my nuts being assaulted.
When my vision clears, I find myself in the same position I had her in only seconds ago except she’s actually starting to pummel me.
“That’s for not talking to me for two years,” she grunts, her fists raining down.
My arms are up, protecting my head, and even though my family jewels might be irreparably damaged, relief flits after the thought that sacrificing a testicle might just barely be worth knowing she’s mad. That she’s not unaffected, not indifferent.
It’s not like I want kids anyway, although I hope at least one is intact ‘cause not having sex would really fucking suck.
Luckily, her punches don’t have the same weight as her kicks, which are powered by her long legs and thick thighs. They’re pressed unforgivingly against my obliques, the soft flesh over her muscles pushing into my hard body.
Bracing my feet on the ground, I thrust hard, bucking my hips off the ground.
She cries when she loses balance and flies forward, and fuck, it’s distracting when her boobs slide across my face.
But I quickly flip her around and slide up, pressing the full length of my body to cage hers and pinning her wrists down with my hands.
Hell, I’m not taking the chance of her retaliating and attacking what’s left of my balls again.
Now that we’re not moving, it’s almost unbearably hot, and the air around us is humid with our sweat.
Our chests undulate against each other as we pant to catch our breaths.
Her heartbeat thrashes against mine, and with each passing second, the pumping inside our chests synchronize to a steady thumping.
Have her eyes always been such a rich shade of brown? The glimmering onyx slices through those deep chocolate pools.
It’s like the last two years are compressed between us, somewhere in the miniscule threads of our clothes crushed between our bodies, and we’re seeing each other for the first time.
I know what I want to see.
The little maid whose fragile body contained a fierce spirit. The girl who ran across the emerald lawn instead of walking the moment both her legs were freed from casts. The child who tackled me every chance she got, warming my back, reminding me that the burden of emotions can be a comforting weight on my shoulders. The angel who I’ve never seen shed a tear save for a bird with a broken leg that lost its battle for life.
So many children lost their lives in similar ways in the Blood Trials, and no one cried for most of them.
Would she have shown the same compassion for them? Kids who weren’t lucky enough like Yevo to have someone remember their names and mark their graves?
Of course, she would. Beautiful, sweet, young Adriana. So innocent, so human, so undefiled.
She was the bright laughter of this cold, silent household. The thief of smiles stealing from the locked depths of our dead souls.
Elena’s resurrection.
My redemption.
But that’s only what I want to see.
Every cell in my body screams that the woman underneath me is foreign.
She’s not weak nor defenseless. She stares back defiantly, unwilling to concede defeat, and her eyes are deep with the solemn wisdom of one whose age far exceeds hers, yet glimmer with an immortal youth, pure and ageless.
Her breath warms my lips, and I’m lost to the dangerous heat, the thrill of diving into the volcano even when your skin burns and cries from a mile away. And even though there can’t be more than a finger’s breadth between us, that’s how far she feels.
The way she feels beneath me stirs my blood in ways it shouldn’t.
She is Pompeii, and I offer myself as a sacrifice to appease the gods, my demise inevitable either way.
To live with her or to live without her, both will be my ruin. And no truth has ever been clearer.
My head is light from the abuse it’s endured, threatening to spin me right back to the ground when I push violently back onto my feet.
My soles pound the floor as I stalk out.
This time, I’m running away from her for my own sake.
The turmoil in my chest already knows with sinking gravity what my head refuses to acknowledge. Knows why my cock is getting harder with each passing second.
I’m a despicable bastard, the filthiest scum, the dredge of humankind.
I can’t want her.
I can’t.
chapter twenty-eight
The muscles in my shoulder, back, thighs, calves, biceps — hell, everywhere — are knotted and tangled and wrenched into ugly soreness.
That’s what I get for not stretching properly and throwing myself furiously into endless spars with any deviant that entertains me or against the punching bags once everyone eyes me and disappears like I’m the fucking crazy one.
Aren’t they supposed to be hardened criminals and shit? Why are they running away from someone a head shorter and half their weight?
I should go get a massage, ask one of the physical therapists to wring out the tension in my muscles, but I want to feel wired and irritated. So that if I spar with Damien again, I can take it out on him, full stop. Pound my fury into his steel surfaces before he’s had enough and subdues me, cages me, traps me under him.
Argh!
But it doesn’t look like Damien’s going to pop out anytime soon, and if nothing else, he’s proven that he’s a master at avoiding me, so I need something else to tire me out.
When I reach the foyer, I throw open the front doors and jog straight for the wooden fence in the back, leaping over it in one jump.
The packed dirt is solid under my feet as I run, and the fresh smell of grass and wood fills my lungs.
Maybe I am going crazy.
It’s been a couple days since Damien and I wrestled on the sparring mats. And my nerves are frayed because he ran away.
Again.
Because of me.
Again.
Ugh.
My legs pump faster, and even though I’m panting, sweating, and flushed, my cheeks heat up even more from the embarrassment.
Did he feel how hard my heart was beating?
At first, I thought his heart might have been responding to mine, but maybe he figured out how my body unraveled and exploded under his touch.
Or did he feel how stiff my nipples got when he was on top of me?
My hands were practically glued to my boobs for the rest of the day, trying to determine if the hardened buds stab out of the thick fabric.
Or m
aybe I just looked sweaty and gross from that close, especially with no makeup on.
Anxiety prickles the back of my skull. I should really ask Jenny to teach me how to use some.
It’s so unfair that he looks like a god performing miracles when he’s all worked up and sweaty. That icy fire in his blue eyes, swallowed by black excitement, gleaming as much as the damp strands of his hair hanging like stalactites, his sweat dewing off them like the purest water to quench a thirsty… well, a thirsty me.
And hungry. Starving. For those lips that looked so soft yet firm. Do they move as commandingly as the words he orders from his mouth?
The sudden gush of moisture between my legs isn’t from the sweat.
My throat still feels choked up from blockading the moans that wanted to jailbreak from deep in my chest.
His body is so hard and defined, the ridges and swells of his muscles bearing down on me, making me feel weak but protected, even if he was the one I was fighting against.
By the time I’m done, the sun is glaring directly overhead, and my lungs are in stitches as I make my way back to the mansion.
To my surprise, Jura’s standing in the foyer, and I immediately spring towards him.
He rarely lingers around outside of his attic space, and the pale whiteness of his skin looks unnatural without the blue tinge of light highlighting it.
Most of my free time over the past couple of years was spent loitering up there with him. He just seems emotionless and callous, but he shares his Honey Butter chips with me, so I know he’s really fond of me.
When Jura spots me, an immediate look of disgust crosses his expression as he quickly dodges when I try to jump on him.
“No,” he scolds sternly. “I don’t want your nasty sweat on my clothes.”
Maybe it’s a result of his job, but he’s a super anal clean freak when it comes to bodily fluids. He refuses to even share soda cans because of the saliva.
“‘Fraid you’re going to get cooties?” I tease. “I’ll just ask Isla to give you a cootie shot.”
“Are you trying to get me killed?” He scowls, effortlessly slipping away when I lunge towards him. “Who knows what she’ll inject me with?”
He curses when my leg flies into the back of his knees, and his long, spidery limbs stretch back as he braces his weight and backflips onto his feet.