Chapter 21: Twenty One

The sunlight was cruel in its brightness. It spilled through the tall arched windows of Amara’s chambers, shining every corner as if determined to chase away the night she’d spent curled in silence.

She blinked against it, her body heavy, her mind raw. For a moment she thought she might break again, like glass under too much pressure. But no. The tears of last night had washed something out of her. What remained was sharper. Harder.

Her father’s voice, his laughter, his careless plans….she couldn’t unhear them. She couldn’t stop the echo of her mother’s absence either. But she could decide something: she would not remain the pawn her father had raised her to be.

If she was to be married off, used, betrayed, or killed then she would be ready for all of it.

She sat up slowly, letting the morning air touch her face. Then, with deliberate steadiness, she rose and dressed in a simple black tunic and trousers, binding her hair back tight. No silks. No jewels. Only herself.

By the time she went to the dining room, the mansion was awake with servants moving quickly and quietly, avoiding her eyes. Breakfast was a lavish spread fresh bread, eggs, smoked meats, fruit arranged in perfect spirals. She ate only enough to steady her body. The rest was wasted on her.

She left the food untouched, her fork placed neatly on the plate, and rose with purpose.

The training room waited in the east wing, deep beneath the mansion’s polished grandeur. Heavy oak doors opened to a space of stone and steel: high ceilings, sanded floors, racks of weapons gleaming under oil lamps. It smelled of iron and leather, the air thick with discipline and sweat.

He was already there.

Darius stood near the center, his jacket set aside, his shirt sleeves rolled, black gloves fitted tight over his hands. His movements were sharp, efficient, each strike against the wooden training dummy measured and precise. His body was all coiled strength, controlled power.

Amara paused in the doorway, her chest tightening before she shoved the feeling down, burying it beneath ice.

He noticed her almost instantly. His gaze flicked toward her, sharp and unreadable, then softened in a way that only made her spine stiffen more.

“I would like to get trained”

“Good morning, Amara.” His voice was low, even, but gentler than she expected. “How are you feeling?”

Her lips pressed into a hard line. “When can we begin?”

His brows drew slightly together. “Begin what?”

She stepped further inside, her boots echoing against the stone. “I want to learn how to defend myself.” Her tone was flat, cold, clipped. “When can we start?”

He studied her, his eyes dark and searching. She felt the weight of it press against her skin, but she didn’t look away.

“Why?” he asked at last, adjusting the strap of his glove, his gaze never leaving hers.

A muscle in her jaw tightened. “I don’t think I owe you any explanation….as my bodyguard.”

The words tasted bitter, but she let them stand.

Silence stretched, thick and charged.

Darius’s stare lingered, unreadable, before he exhaled softly and nodded once. “Okay.”

He turned, grabbed something from the bench, and tossed it to her. A pair of black boxing gloves landed against her chest with a solid weight.

“Put these on,” he said simply.

Her fingers fumbled only for a second before she slipped them on, tugging the straps tight. She flexed her hands, feeling the leather grip her skin.

Darius circled her, slow, assessing. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight balanced. You don’t fight standing still….you fight by moving.”

She copied the stance stiffly.

“No.” He stepped closer, nudging her foot with the toe of his boot. “Not like that. Again.”

His nearness unsettled her, but she masked it with cool detachment, forcing her body into position until he gave the barest nod of approval.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now..hands up.”

She raised her fists, the gloves heavy, her arms awkward.

“Higher.” His voice dropped, closer now. His hand lifted, not touching, but hovering near her chin. “Guard your face. Always.”

She met his gaze, her eyes cold, but her pulse betrayed her thudding hard in her ears.

“Show me a punch.”

Her first attempt was clumsy, more shove than strike.

He caught her wrist mid-motion, holding it still. His grip was firm, his glove rough against hers, the heat of him searing through.

“If you hit like that, you’ll break your hand before you break your opponent,” he said, low and steady.

She yanked her hand back, chin tilting defiantly. “Then show me.”

Something flickered in his expression, but he didn’t argue. He positioned himself beside her, demonstrating with perfect form a sharp jab, shoulders twisting, hips aligning, power driving from the ground up. The sound of his glove cracking against the leather pad echoed like thunder in the room.

“Your turn.”

She mirrored him, striking harder, sharper this time. The shock of contact buzzed through her arm.

“Better,” he said, voice quiet.

Strike after strike, she threw herself into it. Her arms burned, sweat beading at her temples, her breath ragged. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Every punch was her father’s betrayal. Every jab was Lord Silvio’s threat. Every strike was her own fury.

At last her body faltered, her shoulders sagging. She bent forward, panting.

Darius was there instantly, steadying her with one hand at her arm. His touch was careful, almost cautious.

“Enough for today.”

She jerked back, straightening, her eyes cold once more. “I decide when I’ve had enough.”

Their gazes locked. The air between them was taut, strung tight with something neither dared name.

Then his expression shuttered. He gave the smallest of nods. “As you wish.”

She pulled the gloves off and let them drop to the floor. Without another word, she turned and walked toward the door, her head held high, even as her chest burned with unspoken things.

Behind her, she felt his stare linger.

But he didn’t call her name.

And she didn’t look back.