Chapter 38 Leo
She arrived exactly on time.
The second hand clicked past six, and the knock echoed through the safehouse like it had been rehearsed. I opened the door without a word, stepped aside, and let her in.
Kristen walked past me, dressed in dark leggings and a fitted tee. Her hair was tied back, her jaw set, no makeup. Her eyes flicked around the space, noting the minimal furniture, the open mat laid out in the garage beyond. No questions. No comments. Just a sharp nod when she turned back to face me.
I led her through the corridor in silence.
The garage had been cleared. Mats stretched across the concrete floor. A few training dummies stood against the wall, half-lit by the single overhead light. I had laid out gloves, wraps, and water already.
“Shoes off,” I said.
She kicked them off neatly and stepped onto the mat.
“Hands up,” I said. “Show me your stance.”
She raised her fists. Feet planted too close, elbows too high. I circled her slowly.
“Your balance is shit,” I said. “Widen your stance. Shift your weight to the back leg.”
She adjusted.
“Lower your chin. Stop showing me your throat like an invitation.”
That got a flicker of something in her eyes. She didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
“Better,” I said. “Now throw a punch.”
She swung wide. I stepped out of its path like it wasn’t even there.
Again.
And again.
Each time I corrected her. A touch to the hip to guide her weight. A nudge to the elbow to adjust her form. My tone stayed clipped, but the heat started to creep in every time her body shifted close.
She moved better than I expected. Light on her feet, responsive. Quick learner. But I barely saw the punches anymore.
I saw the way sweat beaded at her collarbone. The way her shirt clung to the curve of her back when she twisted. The sound of her breathing started to echo louder than her footwork.
I adjusted her form again. This time, my hand stayed longer than it needed to.
She noticed.
Didn’t say anything.
“Again,” I said, stepping back.
She lunged at me with another swing.
This one had force behind it.
I caught her wrist mid-motion.
Her body twisted from the momentum. I shifted smoothly behind her and pulled her into me in one fluid move, her back slamming lightly against my chest. My arm wrapped low across her stomach, securing her.
“Cornered,” I said against her ear. “Now what?”
She didn’t answer.
Her breathing was unsteady. Her shoulders moved with each inhale, pressing her tighter into me.
Her hair brushed my jaw. Her scent filled my lungs—something clean and sharp with the hint of her skin under it. My hand slid lower. From her stomach to her hip. Then slowly, carefully, down to the curve of her thigh.
I kept speaking. I had to.
“If someone grabs you from behind, you break the grip first. Elbow to the ribs. Stomp the instep. Shift your weight, then—”
She shifted.
But not away.
Closer.
She didn’t move to escape. Didn’t flinch.
My hand stayed on her thigh, thumb stroking over the thin fabric once.
She didn’t move at first.
Not when I caught her wrist. Not when I spun her. Not even when her back landed flush against my chest, one of my hands anchoring her at the waist. She just breathed—shallow, steady, like she was trying not to give anything away.
But her body said more than her face ever would.
She was warm against me. Too warm. The kind of heat that seeps straight into your skin and stays there. Her spine aligned with mine, the back of her head just brushing my jaw. She was close enough I could feel the pulse in her throat, steady and fast, and I knew—without a doubt—that she felt the way my chest rose behind her. How I wasn’t breathing right either.
I should’ve let go.
Should’ve stepped back. Created space. Reasserted control.
Instead, I spoke low into her ear, voice tighter than it should have been.
“If someone’s behind you like this,” I said, “you don’t freeze. You drop low. Drive your elbow into the ribs. Shift your hips.”
She didn’t respond.
I adjusted my grip on her, fingers sliding lower on her waist. Just enough to guide. Just enough to keep the touch useful. Professional. That was the excuse.
But it wasn’t professional.
It was indulgent.
And she knew it.
Her weight shifted—subtle. Deliberate. She leaned, just slightly, like she was testing how close she could get before I pulled away.
I didn’t pull away.
My hand hovered on her hip for a second too long.
Her hair smelled like heat and shampoo and something faintly sweet. It brushed my cheek as she tilted her head, just a little. Not looking at me. Not speaking. But still shifting her center of gravity until her ass pressed more firmly against my hips.
My cock pulsed once, hard.
Fuck.
I stepped in without thinking. Just a fraction of an inch. A mistake, but a conscious one.
Her breath caught.
I didn’t move my hand.
Neither did she.
We stood like that—frozen in something that wasn’t part of the training—until my control started to slip, molecule by molecule.
If she turned around right then, I would’ve kissed her. Dragged her down to the mat and pinned her there and tasted every inch of the heat she kept just under her skin.
But she didn’t turn.
She just stayed there, molded against me, like she was daring me to break first.
And God help me, I almost did.
Her body leaned back into mine. My cock pulsed even harder behind my zipper, already pressing against her. There was no way she couldn’t feel it.
My mouth hovered near the shell of her ear.
Our eyes met in the reflection of the darkened window. Hers were wide, lips parted, flushed from exertion—or something else.
I couldn’t breathe.
All I had to do was lean in. An inch. Less. Just press my mouth to the side of her neck and let go.
But before I could—
She twisted, shrugging out of my grip.
“I… I need to go,” she said quickly, not meeting my eyes.
Her voice was breathy but sharp with purpose.
She turned, grabbed her bag in one clean motion, and walked to the door without a backward glance.
It closed behind her.
I stood there for a long time, hands clenched at my sides.
The echo of her breath still filled the room.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I lay in bed, one arm thrown over my eyes, jaw clenched tight. Every second of the moment replayed like punishment. The way her body had felt against mine. The soft give of her hips under my hand. The fucking scent of her. My cock had been painfully hard, pressed against her ass, and she didn’t move. She didn’t pull away until she had to.
I saw the look in her eyes when she turned.
Not disgust.
Not fear.
Hunger.
Same as mine.
But she’d walked away.
Because she had more sense than I did.
I rolled over onto my side and adjusted myself again. Still hard. Still fucking burning.
I should have just taken a cold shower. Or jerked off. But I didn’t. I just stared at the ceiling until the light changed.
The next morning, I was worthless.
I skipped breakfast. Walked around the safehouse like a ghost. Everything I touched reminded me of her. The spot where she dropped her bag. The mat where I had her pinned. The scent of her perfume still lingered faintly in the air, like she’d left something behind on purpose.
I tried to work. Reviewed surveillance logs. Updated sigil placement records. None of it registered.
At one point I caught myself just staring out the window, hand absentmindedly pressed to the inside of my thigh where she had leaned into me.
Pathetic.
By mid-morning, my phone buzzed.
Edward.
His voice came through tense when I answered the call.
“You need to get to the Realm. Fast.”
I straightened immediately. The fog in my head shattered.
“Why?”
“Because I think we found our gargoyle.”