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His sheets. His blankets.

“Shit,” Randall said, finally out of breath. I had to give her credit — not many people could make Randall breathless. I’d fought beside him in eleven countries over thirty-nine different engagements, and I still only needed one hand to count the number of times I’d seen his chest rising and falling like th

at.

“Next time,” he said, pointing at me and then down at the sheets. “Your bed.”

Nineteen

ANDREA

I woke between them in the darkness, all warm and snug. Totally contented. Utterly safe.

Oh yeah, and completely drenched.

They’d taken me again individually, each of them waking in turn. Nudging my legs apart… sliding their hard bodies over mine. I spread for Holden first, savoring the feel of being buried beneath a mountain of musk and muscle. He screwed me hotly while Randall snored… only to be awakened by him later, his beard tickling my neck as he slid into me from behind.

After that it was sleep, for a little while at least. Without saying a word they’d pushed their mattresses together, remaking the bed so that we all laid lengthwise across the seam. It was like they’d done it all before. I realized of course that they had, but my mind was still processing this crazy turn of events.

I crept now through the shadowy gym, wondering what time was. Even with the windows boarded I could tell it was pitch black outside. There were two little skylights near the center ceiling, and right now they revealed only the inkiest patches of sky.

I relieved myself in the one clean bathroom stall, then padded over and opened the office fridge. I was thirsty as hell. Totally parched from—

“Grab me one too?”

My heart leapt into my throat, but at least until I recognized the voice. I turned to see Holden, smiling amusedly. He wasn’t close enough to whack him in the chest, so I threw the plastic bottle at him, hard.

He caught it anyway, with the quick snap of a wrist.

“Can’t sleep?”

I held up on finger as I screwed off my own cap and began swallowing. Gulp after gulp I emptied the whole water bottle, before crushing it like a pseudo-badass.

“Okay then,” Holden chuckled. “Just thirsty.”

He sank into what was once the manager’s chair and a plume of fresh dust swirled up around us. He was scanning the walls now, which were covered in banners. Below these were a series of faded mid-eighties posters. Promotions and fight announcements, from bouts that had been won or lost decades ago.

“So… what are we looking at?”

I glanced again. Everything was lettered in the native language of course, except for the dates.

“You hoping for an ‘it’s all Greek to me joke’?”

He laughed. “No. But that’s a good one.” Leaning over the old desk, his expression grew more serious. “I meant you, Andrea. How do you feel?”

“Well my legs are sore,” I replied nonchalantly. “Haven’t been stretched that far in a while, but otherwise—”

“You know what I mean.” He tapped the side of his head with one finger. “How are you up here?”

I hesitated before answering. It was definitely a sweet gesture, him looking out for me. But while I appreciated where he was coming from, I still had too many questions of my own.

“Why are you so hellbent at nailing Kyrkos?” I asked abruptly.

Holden leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers together. I couldn’t help but think about what those fingers had done to me, just a few hours ago.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you know why I want him dead,” I replied. “Or at least I’m pretty sure you do.”