Chapter 4 The Kiss
The whistle cuts through the dark at exactly 5am.
Sharp. Unforgiving.
I am already awake.
The base is still half asleep when we line up on the track. Cold air bites into my lungs. The sky hangs low and grey. Boots hit the ground in steady rhythm as we start the run.
One lap. Two. Three.
My body moves on instinct. Muscle memory. Discipline drilled into bone. Sweat forms fast. Breath burns. I push harder anyway.
Pain keeps the thoughts quiet.
Someone falls behind. Someone curses. I do not look back.
I run like I am chasing something. Or someone.
Ren Moretti’s name flashes in my head with every step.
After the run comes drills. Push ups. Burpees. Planks. No breaks. No mercy. The instructors bark orders. I follow them without missing a beat.
When they finally call it, most people bend over, gasping.
I do not.
I walk straight to the gym.
The lights buzz overhead. The smell of metal and chalk greets me like an old friend. I wrap my hands, tight and precise, then step up to the heavy bag.
The first punch lands hard.
The second lands harder.
I kick. Spin. Punch again. My body moves fast. Controlled. Violent.
I imagine faces on the bag. Masks. Shadows. Smug mouths hidden behind silence.
I grab knives next. Line them up. One by one. My arm snaps forward.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Every blade sinks dead center.
I lift weights next. Heavy ones. The kind that make your vision blur at the edges. My muscles scream. I welcome it.
Pain is honest.
“You are going to pull a muscle at the rate you are going.”
I freeze mid rep.
I know that voice.
I rack the weight and turn.
Ashen leans against the wall like he owns it. Arms crossed. Legs crossed. Annoyingly relaxed.
“What do you want?” I snap.
He lifts his hands in mock surrender and pushes off the wall. “Woah. Easy, killer. I am just worried about you.”
“I do not need your worry.”
“I can feel the anger radiating off you in strong waves,” he says. “It is impressive. Terrifying. Very on brand.”
“Go find someone else to bother.”
He arches a brow and sighs. “Let me guess. General Russo said something. Again.”
I look away.
Damn him.
He steps closer. “That is a yes.”
“I am fine.”
“You are throwing knives like they insulted your family.”
“They probably did.”
He snorts. “You know, for someone who claims to not care, you care a lot.”
I grit my teeth. My jaw tightens. He sees it. He always does.
I hate that he can read me so easily.
And I hate that I like it.
I should punch him.
Instead, I breathe.
Ashen reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair back into my bun. The touch is gentle. Familiar.
“I told you,” he says quietly. “Stop letting him get to you. He does not deserve that power. Not when all he does is sit behind a desk and give orders like war is a board game.”
“That is your general you are talking about,” I murmur.
“He can go fuck himself.”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop it.
Ashen smiles. A small victory.
He steps closer and lowers his voice. “You are the one in the field. You are the one bleeding. You are the one chasing ghosts while everyone else talks.”
My throat tightens.
“I almost had them,” I say.
“You will,” he replies. No hesitation. “And when you do, he will have no choice but to see you.”
I scoff. “He will just say my brother would have done it faster.”
Ashen’s jaw tightens. “Your brother is not here.”
“I know.”
“And you are.”
He moves closer. Too close. His hands find my waist. Warm. Steady. He pulls me in, chest to chest. My breath stutters before I can stop it.
“This is wrong,” I mutter. “We should not be doing this. Not here.”
“They all can go fuck themselves,” he murmurs, brushing his lips near my ear.
A shiver runs through me.
I push him lightly. “You have a bad mouth.”
He grins. “I know.”
Footsteps echo outside the gym.
Reality crashes back in.
Ashen steps away first. Professional. Controlled. Like nothing happened.
I hate that too.
He grabs his towel. “Try not to break anything important.”
“No promises.”
He pauses at the door. Looks back. “You are not alone in this, Amelia.”
Then he is gone.
I stand there for a moment. Heart racing. Muscles tight.
Then I pick up another knife.
Ren Moretti.
I throw.
Thunk.
Dead center.
I smile.
I return to my room and lock the door behind me.
Silence greets me. The kind that presses against the ears.
I strip without ceremony and step into the bathroom. I turn the tap all the way to cold. No hesitation. The water hits my skin like a slap. Sharp. Brutal. Exactly what I need. My breath stutters but I stay there, letting it pour over my head, down my spine, washing away the fog in my mind.
Cold always works.
My body is tired. Bone tired. The kind of tired that sits deep in the muscles and refuses to leave. I barely slept. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, replaying faces, names, scenarios. Lorenzo Moretti’s name loops in my head like a curse. I think of all the ways I could kill him. Slow ways. Fast ways. Clean ways. Messy ways. I plan. I revise. I discard. I plan again.
Plotting keeps me sane.
Morning drills did not help. Neither did the extra hour at the gym. If anything, they made it worse. My arms ache. My legs feel heavy. My shoulders burn. But pain is familiar. Pain is honest.
There is no rest for the wicked. And yes, I do consider myself wicked. Brutally so. Anyone who says otherwise does not know me well enough.
I finish up, dry off, and get dressed. Simple. Clean. Functional. I look at my reflection for a second longer than necessary. My eyes look sharp. Awake. Dangerous. Good.
With nothing urgent to do, I decide to walk around base.
The corridors are already alive. Boots hitting the floor. Voices low and disciplined. I move through them easily, like I belong here. Because I do. I salute who needs to be saluted. I nod where a nod is enough. I ignore who needs to be ignored. Rank is a language. I speak it fluently.
The air smells like steel and oil and early morning sweat. Home.
I turn down a quieter path, one that cuts past the older wing. The lights here are dimmer. Shadows cling to the walls. My steps slow without me meaning to. Instinct prickles at the back of my neck.
Then it happens.
A hand shoots out from the darkness and clamps around my arm. I am pulled hard, dragged into the shadows. I react without thinking. Elbow back. Knee up. My fist swings for a throat.
The attack is blocked.
Strong arms catch me, redirecting the blow. I twist, ready to strike again, but a familiar voice cuts through the tension.
“At least your workout is paying off.”
The words are followed by a pained groan.
I freeze.
“Ashen?” I hiss. “What the fuck?”
He is close. Too close. I can feel his breath, hear it uneven against my ear. He lifts a finger and presses it gently against my lips.
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “We might be hidden, but they can still hear us.”
I slap his hand away. “Why did you drag me here?” I whisper yell. “Have you lost your mind?”
He looks at me for a moment. Really looks at me. His jaw tightens.
“Because I regretted not doing this,” he says.
Then he moves.
His hands frame my face and his mouth crashes into mine. Rough. Sudden. No warning. No mercy.
For half a second, my mind goes blank.
Then my body reacts.
I shove him hard in the chest. “Are you insane?” I whisper furiously.
He does not move back. He steps closer instead, boxing me in against the wall. His eyes are dark. Angry. Hungry.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
That is all the permission he needs.
He kisses me again. Slower this time, but deeper. His lips move against mine with intent, like he has been holding this back for far too long. I hate that my body responds. I hate that my heart starts racing. I hate that I do not pull away.
So I kiss him back.
Hard.
My fingers curl into his shirt. I drag him closer, meeting his mouth with equal force. There is frustration in the kiss. Anger. Want. All tangled together. Our teeth clash. My breath catches when his hand slides to my waist, steadying me, grounding me.
I bite his lower lip. Not gently.
He groans softly and presses his forehead to mine, breathing heavy. “You are going to be the death of me,” he mutters.
I scoff quietly. “Get in line.”
He laughs under his breath. A short sound. Then he kisses me again, slower now. Controlled. Like he is trying very hard not to lose himself. His thumb brushes my jaw. My skin tingles where he touches me.
I hate how right it feels.
I pull back first. I have to. This is a bad idea. A reckless one. And I am not reckless. Not like this.
“This cannot happen,” I whisper.
He searches my face. “It already did.”
I push him away, just enough to breathe. “We are on base. This is stupid.”
He smirks faintly. “You did not seem to mind.”
I roll my eyes, even as my pulse refuses to slow. “Do not get cocky.”
His gaze softens. “You have not slept.”
“Do not change the subject.”
He steps back finally, giving me space. Reluctantly. “You are planning something,” he says.
I raise a brow. “Am I that obvious?”
“To me,” he replies.
That annoys me more than it should.
I straighten my jacket. Fix my hair. Rebuild my walls. “Stay out of my way, Ashen.”
He watches me like he knows I am lying. Like he knows I never really let anyone stay out of my way.
“Be careful,” he says quietly.
I pause. Just for a second. Then I walk away.
I do not look back.
But I can still feel his kiss on my lips long after I leave the shadows behind.