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“Get out of my way,” I warn, my hands clenching into fists at my sides.

“Make me.”

The challenge in his voice ignites something primal inside me. Without conscious thought, I lunge forward, throwing a wild punch toward his jaw. Z sidesteps easily, letting my momentum carry me past him.

“You can do better than that,” he taunts softly.

I whirl around. This time, my attack is more focused—a brutal combination Talon drilled into me, unrelenting.

Z blocks the first blow, but the second catches him in the ribs. He grunts, a sound of approval, as he circles me.

“That's it,” he praises me. “Channel it.”

I advance again, throwing my entire body into each strike. My fist connects with his shoulder, his chest, but he absorbs theimpacts without retaliating, becoming a living punching bag for my rage.

“Fight back!” I demand, frustration building as he continues to merely defend.

“Not until you show me you mean it.” His voice is maddeningly calm. “You're still holding back.”

Something inside me snaps at his words. The dam I've built around my emotions crumbles, and everything I've been suppressing since walking into my father's study floods through me—the terror of seeing Alex alive when I'd mourned him as dead, the helplessness of watching Luca suffer, the sickening revelation of my grandfather's twisted plans.

My next attack is vicious, primal. I feint left, then drive my knee toward his midsection. Z barely blocks in time as I follow with an elbow strike that grazes his jaw.

“There she is,” he murmurs, satisfaction threading every word as he finally begins to fight back.

We move across the mat in a brutal ballet, neither of us holding back now. Z's size and strength are matched by my speed and desperation. Sweat clings to my skin, my breathing growing ragged as we circle and strike. For these precious moments, there is only the fight—no Collector, no impossible deadline, no tortured loved ones. Just the clean, clarifying violence of bodies in motion.

Z catches my wrist as I aim for his throat, using my momentum to spin me against his chest. His arm locks around my waist, pinning me against him.

“Better, but still not your best.”

I drive my heel into his instep, simultaneously throwing my head back. The crack of my skull connecting with his jaw is satisfying, as is his grunt of pain when he releases me. I whirl to face him, dropping into a fighting stance.

Z wipes blood from his split lip, a menacing smile spreading across his face. “Now we're getting somewhere.”

We clash again, the tempo increasing with each exchange. Z lands a blow to my ribs that steals my breath, but I counter with a sweep that nearly takes his legs from under him. The physical pain is almost welcome, a sharp, clean contrast to the emotional agony that's been consuming me.

When he catches me in another hold, I don't fight it immediately. Instead, I let my body go slack for just a second, feeling his grip loosen in response before I explode into motion, bursting free and landing a solid hit to his solar plexus.

Z doubles over. “Nice shot,” he wheezes, a glint of pride on his face.

I don't give him time to recover. I lunge forward, using my momentum to drive him backward. We tumble together, his back hitting the mat with a satisfying thud as I follow him down. My thighs clamp around his waist, pinning his hips while I capture his wrists, pressing them to the mat above his head.

“Yield,” I demand, my chest heaving with exertion.

Z stares up at me, something shifting in his expression. The playful challenge transforms into something more primal.

Before I can process what's happening, he surges upward, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that's nothing like the careful, measured touches he's been giving me since we found out Alex was alive.

I freeze for a heartbeat, shock slicing through me. Then something breaks open in my chest, and I’m kissing him back just as fierce, just as desperate. My grip on his wrists loosens, fingers sliding into his hair, yanking him closer.

His hands seize my hips, rough and unyielding, dragging me against him with bruising intent.

The kiss is blood and salt, his split lip, my bitten tongue, sweat beading on overheated skin. It’s messy, violent, andexactly what I need. For the first time since that hellish meeting with my grandfather, I feel something other than fear—desire, raw and consuming, burning everything else to ash.

Z rolls us, reversing our positions in one smooth motion. He settles between my thighs, his mouth trailing from my lips to my jaw, down the column of my throat, leaving a smoldering ache in his wake.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps against my pulse, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “If this isn’t what you want, say it.”