“I still need to show you my moves,” she says, trying to sound unaffected. But I can feel the tension in her stomach, the war beneath her skin whenever I stand this close.
I’m addicted to her.
My queen. My fucking queen.
“You do indeed. Come on—before you add more chaos to your tower of crockery,” I tug her arm gently.
She scowls, casting one last look at the wobbly pile of dishes she’s stacked like kitchen Jenga.
In the gym, I stand with arms folded, watching her like a hawk as she ties her hair up and bounces on the balls of her feet near the opponent bag. Her shoulders roll, her weight shifts—she’s jittery with adrenaline. Or nerves.
“You know if this were real, he’d have already dropped you,” I tease, leaning against the doorframe, a grin pulling at the corner of my mouth.
“Shut up.” She throws me a glare. “I’m just warming up.”
This is going to be fun.
My phone buzzes again—another distraction. I silence it with a swipe and pocket it. Right now, I need to be here. Whatever’s clawing at me from the outside world can wait.
She throws her first punch—clean, fast—and ducks away like she’s dancing with ghosts. A roundhouse kick follows, fluid and sharp.
“See?” she calls, cocky now. “Itoldyou.”
Cockiness. That will get you killed.
“Yeah, you’re doing great against something that doesn’t fight back,” I say, deliberately backhanded.
“Oh, he fights back,” she scoffs, throwing a lazy jab at the bag. “You’d be surprised.”
“Alright then.” I push off the doorframe and approach, slow and deliberate. “Try it on me.”
The moment she realises I’m stepping into the ring, her swagger flickers. She swallows, glancing up. Calculating.
“That’s not fair. You’re like twice my size.”
“There’s no fair in a fight. Not where I’m going. No skinny girls looking for a spar. Just men who’d carve you up and laugh about it. Show me what you’ve got.”
I tighten the belt on my combats and shift my weight under the black tee. She huffs and cracks her knuckles, but the heat in her eyes never dims.
Her first move is clever—hands feint high, then she aims a kick at my groin. I catch her calf mid-strike, twist, and send her sprawling onto the mats.
“Again,” I say, backing off just enough for her to stand.
This time she charges, shoving my chest hard—but I don’t flinch. Her fist swings up, aiming for my jaw, but I block it clean with my forearm, snatch her wrist, and twist it behind her back.
She grunts, caught. Staring at the floor, then back at me. Something fierce flickers behind her eyes. Not fear. Not defeat.
Defiance.
“You’re cheating,” she grumbles, the embodiment of a sore loser. Classic.
“No,” I counter, arms folded. “You’re just not as strong as you think. A man won’t square up—he’ll overpower. He won’t fight fair.”
Her brow knits, but there’s hunger in her expression. “So how do I get out of it?”
She’s eager. I’ll give her that.
“On the floor. On your back.”
