Page 5 of Shattered by Grace (The Locke Empire Duet #1)

Tyson outright laughed this time, stepping away as if he wanted no part in whatever was about to happen. Tristan’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip, his gaze darkening as he took her in.

“You got a lot of mouth for someone who just watches,” he murmured.

Victoria arched a brow, her pulse quickening despite herself. “And you got a lot of bruises for someone who thinks he’s untouchable.”

Tristan exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re trouble.”

She grinned. “You have no idea.”

Victoria’s irritation simmered as she strode to the speed bag, her favorite outlet for frustration.

She struck with precision, each rhythmic hit a release until her focus slipped.

In the mirror, Tristan moved effortlessly across the gym, his presence an unwelcome distraction.

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself back into rhythm, but when he stopped at the bag beside hers, ignoring him became impossible.

Tristan watched her, smirking as she struck the bag with controlled precision. “Feisty doesn’t even begin to cover you, does it?”

What the fuck?

Victoria’s punches didn’t slow. If anything, they hit harder. “Only when provoked.”

He stepped closer. “And what poor soul managed to provoke you?”

Grabbing the bag, she turned to meet his gaze. “Haven’t decided yet.”

Tristan tilted his head, his smirk unwavering. “Careful, sweetheart. Someone might take that as a threat.”

Victoria exhaled a sharp laugh, shaking out her wrists. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

His smirk deepened, but there was something sharper in his expression now, something almost hungry. He took another step forward, voice dropping to a murmur. “The guy who’d love to know who the unlucky bastard is.”

Unbothered, she stared him down in silence. His smile was icy in return, lips curved but eyes guarded. “Tristan Locke.”

The name struck like a blade to the gut. Locke .

Her stomach lurched. The air in her lungs turned to ice. For a moment, the world around her blurred, shrinking down to the single, inescapable truth of that name. Locke. The name that had haunted her nightmares, the name tied to bloodstained memories she could never erase.

A roaring filled her ears, drowning out everything except the sound of her own ragged breathing.

No. No, it can't be. Her fingers twitched at her sides, fighting the instinct to run, to lash out, to do anything other than stand there, frozen, as the son of the man who had her father murdered looked at her with unreadable eyes.

Her mind splintered between past and present. She could still see her father’s face, the exhaustion in his eyes from fighting a war he could never win, the hushed conversations, the quiet but firm warnings. Stay away from the Lockes.

And now?

Now she was standing in front of one, close enough to touch, to strike, to tear into with the rage clawing its way up her throat.

But she couldn't. Not yet.

She swallowed, forcing her expression into something neutral, something indifferent, even as her insides twisted into knots. She couldn't let him see, wouldn’t let him see, the storm raging beneath her skin.

"Locke?" she echoed, tilting her head slightly, the name thick and bitter on her tongue.

A test. A trap. A slow step toward the fire.

Tristan leaned in, his proximity pressing into her space, testing her boundaries. She took a small step back, not out of fear, but to make it clear she wouldn’t be cornered.

“And you are?”

Before she could answer, Tyson appeared, quiet and effortless.

“I’m Tyson Locke.” His voice was smooth, sharp. “Apologies for my twin, he can be ill-mannered.”

The Locke princes.

Victoria forced her breath to remain steady, her fingers curled around the tape at her wrists, peeling it off with a practiced calm, using the motion to ground herself. Not here. Not now. She couldn’t let them see the storm raging inside her.

Victoria peeled the tape from her wrists, her fingers steady, her movements calculated. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice controlled, almost dismissive. “I was just leaving.”

She turned, ready to put as much distance between them as possible, only to find herself boxed in.

Tristan stood in front of her, Tyson just beside him, both immovable. The wall of mirrors behind her.

Her exit was blocked.

The weight of their stares burned into her, a silent, unspoken challenge.

Victoria didn’t falter. Instead, she exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back before meeting only Tristan’s gaze, her expression smooth as glass.

“Are you planning on moving,” she asked coolly, “or do you just enjoy standing in my way?”

Tristan smirked, tilting his head slightly. “That depends,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “Are you always this rude, or is it just me?”

Victoria’s lips curled at the edges, but there was no warmth in it. “Just you,” she said, then stepped forward, not waiting for permission, not hesitating, forcing him to shift or risk her plowing straight through him.

She felt the heat of their bodies as she brushed past, the tension crackling like a live wire, but she refused to look back.

Not when she could still feel their eyes on her.

Not when she had just walked away from the most dangerous men in the city. And they had no idea who she really was.