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Katarina fucking Novak.

The way she stood there yesterday—tight shirt, tighter mouth, pretending like she didn’t want it. Clipboard dropped, breath caught, and those wide, wicked eyes daring me to make the first move.

So I did.

Backed her into the wall and got my hands on her—skin hot, neck pulsing like she was waiting for me to bite. She didn’t flinch when I grabbed her throat. Didn’t pull away when I pressed my body into hers and let her feel every inch of what she was doing to me.

Her fingers curled in my shirt like she was begging. That soft little gasp when I dragged my tongue over her throat and bit down just enough to leave a memory? Fuck me—I’m still hard just thinking about it.

We almost kissed. Would’ve taken her right there against the gear rack if that door hadn’t slammed.

And yeah—I’m still pissed we got interrupted. Because now, every time I close my goddamn eyes, it’s her mouth I see. Her legs around my waist. Her voice, breathy as hell, whispering my name like she wants it wrecked out of her.

But I can’t. Ican’tfuck this up again.

Griffin’s already got his sights on me. One wrong move—one hint that I’ve touched his precious little sister—and he’ll make sure I’m done. Not just traded. Blacklisted. My career in the gutter before I can blink.

I need to keep my hands off her. Keep it professional. Play the fake boyfriend for the cameras and ignore the way my cock jumps every time she’s in the same room.

Problem is, I don’t know if I’m strong enough. Not when she looks at me like that.

I drop onto the bench, towel draped over my shoulders, chest still heaving from the last set. The gym’s finally empty, the clang of weights replaced by silence that doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels exposed. Too still. Like my thoughts are waiting to corner me the second I let my guard down.

And sure as hell—they do.

Late at night, when I’m supposed to be recovering, resting, sleeping off the bruises like a good little athlete…

I’m not.

I’m in the dark, hand wrapped around my length, chasing relief I can’t fucking catch. Because no matter how I start...it’s always the same.

The mask...never her name. Just the sounds. The way her body moved. The way she gave in like no one had ever touched her right. Just a flicker—

A breathy sound.

A silhouette in motion.

And sometimes—hell, more often than I want to admit—Katarina’s face shows up where she shouldn’t. Her eyes yesterday. Desperate, wanting, pupils blown wide when I had her pinned against that wall. The masked girl from that party? I don’t know her name. But now, it’s Kat’s lips I picture moaning mine.

Which is exactly the kind of thinking that’s gonna get me fucked. Griffin’s watching. Waiting for me to slip up so he can bury me for good.

I can’t touch her again. Can’t let myself want what I can’t have.

Even if it kills me.

I pick back up slamming into another set of reps. Chest burning. Biceps trembling. Don’t care.

Pain’s better than pacing in my damn apartment, wondering what happens when Griffin finds out. Because hewillfind out.

And when he does...I’m gonna need a flak vest.

Footsteps hit the tile. A familiar voice follows.

“Dude. You’re lifting like you’re pissed at the iron.”

Aiden.

I drop the weights and shoot Aiden a look over my shoulder. Jax is right behind him, arms crossed, looking at me like he just walked into a crime scene instead of chest day.