17: Training Session, My Ass
ALEXA
I knew something was wrong the second Killian told me to "wear something comfortable."
That was never a good sign. Especially coming from a man who once wore a three-piece to a fucking club. 'Comfort' was not in his vocabulary.
So, naturally, I wore leggings and a black tank top, mostly because I suspected we were going somewhere that might involve murder. Or cardio. Either way, I wanted to be prepared.
What I wasn't prepared for?
A literal underground training facility straight out of a dystopian action movie.
"What the hell is this?" I asked as I stepped into the massive space. Polished concrete floors. Fluorescent lights. A shooting range on the far end. And in the center? An elevated ring with ropes, mats, and padded floors. Oh, and weapons. So many goddamn weapons.
Killian, the smug bastard that he was, tilted his head.
"Our private training gym," he simply said.
"Our?"
He nodded.
I blinked at him. "You're insane."
"Thank you for noticing."
He walked ahead of me like some demigod, and I hated the way his sweatpants and tight black tee made him look like literal sin. I was supposed to be annoyed, not distracted by the way his back muscles moved.
I followed him anyway, mostly because I didn't trust him not to lock me in down here.
"What now?" I asked, my arms folded.
"Hand-to-hand drills," he said, tossing a pair of gloves toward me. "Put them on."
I let them drop to the floor and blinked slowly. "Do I look like someone who voluntarily participates in drills?"
"No. You look like someone who needs to learn how to survive."
My right eye twitched.
"Is this because I mocked your microwave fire incident?"
"No," he deadpanned. "This is because I plan to make sure you're not defenseless if someone tries to take you from me."
Oof. Okay. That one hit low.
Still. I didn't move.
"I'm not a soldier, Killian," I said, annoyed now. "I'm not going to get into cage fights for sport."
"This isn't sport."
He stepped closer, his eyes locked on mine.
"This is survival, Alexa."
I should've backed down. I should've let it go. But something about the way he looked at me as if he was daring me to crumble... it sparked my fighting spirit.
"Fine," I snapped, yanking on the gloves. "But if I break your nose, I'm not apologizing."
His smirk was criminal.
"Try me."
....
"I hate you," I growled, breathless, as he flipped me onto the mat for the fifth time.
"You're slow," he said casually, offering me a hand I absolutely did not take. "You telegraph your moves. If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."
"I said I'm not a soldier."
"You said that already. I'm trying to help you not become a corpse."
I launched myself at him before I could think, rage detonating in my chest.
I swung, and this time, he didn't see it coming.
I ducked his grab, twisted, and used every ounce of fury and frustration to shove him backward. We tumbled, landing hard, and suddenly, I was on top of him. My knees were straddling his hips, and my hands were resting on his chest.
His chest heaved beneath me. I could feel the tension rolling off him in thick waves.
And then, those cold, glacial eyes flicked to my lips.
I hated how my pulse jumped. I hated that I could smell him and feel the burn of his gaze. I hated even more that I wanted him to close the distance.
"Alexa—" his voice was hoarse.
"You said I was slow," I whispered, my lips inches from his. "Still think that?"
His jaw tightened.
His hands gripped my waist, and then he shoved me off like I’d burned him.
"Session's over," he muttered, already standing and walking away as if he hadn't just almost kissed me.
...
The training ground was empty now. Just me and a punching bag that looked way too much like a smug, six-foot-four control freak with glacier eyes and a god complex.
I paced in front of it, my heart still jackhammering from earlier.
Training session, my ass.
That wasn't training. That was psychological warfare wrapped in sexual tension and topped with just enough brute force to make me question all my life choices.
I shoved my gloves back on, tied them tighter, and narrowed my eyes at the bag as though it had personally insulted my entire bloodline.
My first punch landed hard.
"You arrogant, insufferable, emotionally-repressed Greek statue come to life," I hissed.
My arms burned as I punched harder in quick succession, but I didn't care.
"I don't need combat training," I muttered, jabbing hard enough to make the chain rattle. "I need a damn therapist. Preferably one who specializes in mafia-induced rage and romantic whiplash."
The bag swayed.
"You walk around like you own the air I breathe."
I punched again.
"—And then you look at me like that. Like you're going to devour me... and then you shove me away the second I get too close."
I hit harder. Faster. My breathing came ragged, but it wasn't from exhaustion anymore.
"Make it make sense!" I yelled, slamming the bag with a right hook that made my shoulder scream.
He was in my head. All of him. His voice. His scent. The scar near his collarbone I couldn't stop staring at. The way his eyes had gone soft when I asked him if he slept last night. The way he'd curled into me as if I was the only safe place he had left in this world.
And then had the audacity to treat me like I was the dangerous one.
One of the gloves slipped slightly, biting into my knuckles, but I didn't stop.
"You think you're the only one who's broken? Newsflash, Cross, I don't remember who the hell I am! And yet somehow, you make me feel like I'm supposed to be whole again just to be near you."
My fist collided with the bag again.
I finally stepped back, my chest heaving.
The bag rocked back and forth, taunting me. Or maybe applauding. I couldn't tell.
"I hate you," I panted, yanking the gloves off and flinging them to the floor. "I hate what you make me feel. I hate that I want you. And I really hate that part of me would let you ruin me."
I collapsed onto the floor, sitting back on my heels, breathless and sweat-slicked.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered...
Was he watching?
Had he stayed in the shadows, listening to me unravel?
Would he smile to himself? Or feel an ache in his chest?
Either way, I'd be ready tomorrow.
This time, I'd be the one who walks away first.
I was still sitting on the mat, my chest heaving, when the door creaked open.
I froze.
Please be a ghost. Or a hallucination. Or literally anyone but—
"...Whoa."
I looked up, and of course it was Rayne.
Of all the beautifully inconvenient people.
She stood at the doorway with her brows raised. She was dressed in a leather jacket that said she had better things to do than babysit mafia wives mid-meltdown.
Her eyes flicked to the gloves on the floor. Then to the dented punching bag. Then to me, who was sweaty, flushed and sitting on the mat like I'd just gone ten rounds with my own emotions.
"Well, damn. Remind me never to piss you off."
I scowled and wiped my forehead with the back of my wrist. "Don't you knock?"
"Didn't know you were in here emotionally decapitating the equipment."
"I wasn’t emotional," I muttered, rising to my feet while trying to pretend I didn't just scream about wanting to be ruined by her boss five minutes ago. "Just...venting."
Rayne cocked a brow. "Right. You always 'vent' like a possessed woman."
"What do you want?"
She tilted her head, her voice suddenly more serious. "Killian asked me to take you home."
My stomach churned. Had he been watching me all along?
I blinked. "What? Why? Where is he?"
"He has a meeting to attend to. He told me that his mother's on her way to the house, and you need to be home before she gets there."
My stomach plummeted.
"Shit," I gasped, my eyes going wide. "I forgot!"