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I need to move, to exhaust my body until my mind shuts up.

The gym. I change into the workout clothes they provided—black leggings and a fitted tank top—and request permission to go.

Twenty minutes later, I'm alone, with only a guard positioned outside the door. The space is impressive—complete with a full-weight section, cardio equipment, and even a sparring area with mats. Of course, the Ivanovs would have a professional-grade setup. Men like them, like Erik, are weapons first, humans second.

I start with a punishing pace on the treadmill, pushing until sweat drips down my spine. Each thudding step helps drown out thoughts of him.

But as I move to free weights, grabbing dumbbells that strain my muscles, I catch myself wondering if this is where he works out every morning. If he's lifted these same weights. If he's avoiding me intentionally.

“Focus,” I hiss, forcing my attention to the burn in my shoulders as I complete another set.

I hate that I miss him. I hate that I care where he is. I hate that my body betrays me with every memory of his touch.

I throw myself into a series of burpees, pushing until my lungs scream for mercy.

I collapse onto the mat, lungs burning. My workout clothes stick to my sweat-soaked skin. Perfect. This is exactly what I wanted—to be too exhausted to think. Too drained to obsess over a man who's kept me prisoner, who's marked my body, who's somehow wormed his way under my skin.

Five more minutes of lying here, then shower. I stare at the ceiling, counting my heartbeats as they slow from racing to merely quick. My limbs feel like lead weights, pleasantly heavy with fatigue.

Viktor appears in the doorway. “Finished?”

I nod, not bothering with words, and push myself up with shaking arms.

“I'll escort you back.”

The walk to my room feels longer today. Each step sends little twinges through my overworked muscles. Good. Physical pain is easier to process than whatever emotional mess I've tangled myself in.

Viktor stops outside my door. “Dinner in two hours.”

I mumble something that might be agreement and push the door open, already imagining the hot water cascading down my back, washing away sweat and confusion and?—

My steps falter.

Erik sits in the armchair by the window, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, hands clasped loosely in his lap. The evening light catches the sharp angles of his face, turning his eyes to dark pools.

Two days of nothing. Two days of silence. And now he's just... here.

Heat flares through my exhausted body, a confusing cocktail of anger, relief, and want.

“Where the hell have you been?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, revealing too much.

Erik doesn't answer my question. He unfolds from the chair with that predatory grace that makes my pulse quicken despite myself. His eyes never leave mine as he crosses the room in measured steps.

I take an instinctive step back, but there's nowhere to retreat. My back hits the door as he reaches me, his hands finding my hips with unerring precision. His fingers press into the same spots where fading bruises mark his previous claim.

“I asked you a question,” I say, trying to sound demanding rather than breathless. “Two days, no word, and you just show up?”

Still, he says nothing. His thumbs trace slow circles over my hipbones, his gaze dropping to where my tank top clings to my skin. Heat crawls up my neck despite my exhaustion.

“I need a shower,” I protest, suddenly hyperaware of how I must look—hair plastered to my forehead, workout clothes drenched in sweat. I push against his chest. “I'm disgusting right now.”

One corner of his mouth lifts in that barely-there smile that does dangerous things to my insides.

“Good,” he finally speaks, his voice lower and rougher than I remember. His hands slide from my hips to my waist, pulling me closer despite my sweaty state. “We can shower together.”

The suggestion sends a jolt through me, vivid images flashing behind my eyes—water cascading down his scarred body, his hands slick with soap as they move over my skin.

“I don't—” I start, but the protest dies on my lips as his fingers slip under the hem of my tank top, brushing against the heated skin of my lower back.