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My first hit lacks proper form—all frustration, no technique. Uncle Leo would've made me do fifty burpees for that sloppy shit. I reset my stance, remembering his endless drills. Feet shoulder-width apart. Protect the face. Rotate from the hips. The second punch lands with a satisfying thud that reverberates up my arm.

Better.

I fall into a rhythm, each impact harder than the last. Left jab. Right cross. Left hook. The bag swings wildly as I unleash combinations that would make my old boxing coach proud. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead as I lose myself in the movement, my knuckles beginning to sting despite the wraps. The music pounds in sync with my heartbeat, drowning out everything but the satisfying percussion of flesh against leather.

I'm not even sure what I'm angry about anymore. Alex's voyeurism? The Collector and what he’s done to Vesper, and now is doing to Luca?

The Collector’s twisted empire—the auctions, the way he treats people like commodities—feeds a fury in me that builds with every punch. If I ever get my hands on him, I’ll make him suffer in ways that would make even Alex look away.

The punching bag becomes his face in my mind. I strike harder, faster, my technique unraveling into raw aggression. The rage I’ve been holding back finally breaks free, uncoiling like something primal. Unrelenting. Uncontrolled. My inner demon, unleashed at last.

I picture him watching Vesper’s medical rape. I imagine him holding Luca captive, preparing to sell his sperm to the highest bidder. The thought ignites a fresh surge of rage, and I unleash a flurry of punches that sends the bag swinging violently on its chain.

A tap on my shoulder sends primal instinct surging through me. I pivot hard, right fist already cocked back, ready to strike?—

“Shit!” I barely pull the punch in time as Vesper jumps backward, her green eyes wide with surprise. My fist freezes inches from her face, trembling with the effort of stopping mid-swing.

“Jesus Christ, Vesper,” I gasp, yanking out my earbuds. “I almost took your head off.” My heart hammers against my ribs. “What are you doing down here at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She's wearing loose sleep shorts and one of Z’s t-shirts. It’s so big on her that the shorts are barely visible under the hem. The hint of bedhead that somehow makes her look even more beautiful. There's a slight flush to her cheeks, and I briefly wonder if it's from climbing down the stairs or from what she was doing earlier with the twins.

“Couldn't sleep,” I manage, trying to regulate my breathing. My heart rate is still elevated, adrenaline coursing through my veins from both the workout and nearly punching her. “Sorry about the...you know.” I gesture vaguely with my still-clenched fist.

“My fault for sneaking up on you.” She moves past me to grab my water bottle, taking a sip before handing it to me. The casual intimacy of the gesture doesn't escape me.

“Why are you awake?”

“Nightmare,” she freely admits.

A nightmare? Unlikely, considering Z would have been awake in half a second if she so much as whimpered in her sleep. I don't call her on the obvious lie. She clearly doesn’t want toshare the real reason that drove her down here in the middle of the night.

“Z or Oscar know you're down here?” I ask, taking the water and downing half of it in one go.

She shrugs, her gaze dropping to my knuckles. “Your wraps are coming loose.”

I glance down at my knuckles, where the fabric has indeed started to unravel. “Hazard of trying to murder a punching bag.”

“Here,” she murmurs, reaching out. “Let me.”

I hesitate before extending my arm, watching as she takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are cool against my slick skin as she gently unwraps the fabric, then begins winding it back into place with smooth, confident movements.

“You've done this before,” I observe.

“My father had one of the enforcers teach Luca to fight. They let me observe sometimes. He always had trouble with his wraps.”

Her fingers work methodically, the gentle pressure against my skin sharp against the violence I just unleashed on the bag. There’s something intimate about the way she tends to me—careful yet confident.

“Your brother boxed?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the electricity shooting up my arm at her touch.

“He was good, too. Quick on his feet.”

“And what about you?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “My father would never allow that. My role was to get married and have babies. Luca was meant to rule the empire. To be ruthless, cruel, and vicious. All things that he isn’t.”

“Do you want to learn?” The question tumbles from my lips before I can think better of it.

Vesper’s fingers pause on my wraps. “Learn what? Boxing?”