Page 12

Chapter Twelve

M aya

Time becomes a blur of training sessions and stolen moments. Victor takes to modern gym equipment like he was born to it, though his reactions to each new machine make me bite back smiles.

“It’s called a lat pulldown,” I explain, demonstrating the movement. His eyes track the cable’s path with fascination, watching how the weight stack rises and falls. “It targets your—” I catch myself before launching into the usual anatomy lesson. How do you explain muscle groups to someone who probably learned anatomy from watching gladiators bleed?

“Ingenious,” he murmurs, testing the grip. “Like rowing, but…” He completes a perfect rep, form better than half my trained fighters. Of course he does.

These moments of discovery become my favorites. The way his eyes light up at each new piece of equipment, his quick mind working out the mechanics. He maintains his grave dignity around the others in the gym, but when we’re alone, his curiosity breaks through.

The first time he sees the squat rack, he circles it like a suspicious cat. “This device prevents the weight from crushing you?”

“That’s the idea.” I adjust the safety bars. “Though I’ve seen plenty of guys who thought they were too good for proper form end up learning the hard way.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Is this how warriors in this place prove their worth? By letting a machine save them from their own stupidity?”

“Something like that.” Our eyes meet, and that now-familiar heat flares between us. I clear my throat. “Let’s start light. Work on form first.”

He proves to be the perfect student—patient, attentive, and eager to learn. His strength returns faster than seems possible, though he’s careful to hide his true progress when Tony’s men are watching. Smart. Keep them underestimating him.

The other fighters notice him, of course. Hard not to, given his size, the grace with which he moves, and the amount of attention I’m giving him. But he keeps to himself, watching their sparring sessions with careful attention while pretending not to understand what he sees.

“Your left-handed fighter drops his guard,” he tells me one evening after the gym clears out. “And the big one’s kicks are easy to see coming.”

I nearly drop the weight I’m reracking. “You got all that just from watching?”

He shrugs, the movement making his shoulders flex impressively under the now-properly fitting T-shirt I snagged from the lost and found bin. “A fighter who does not study his potential opponents deserves his fate.”

“Yeah? And what else have you observed, oh wise one?”

Another ghost smile. “That your assistant trainer favors his left knee. That the young one with red hair has natural talent but lacks discipline. That you work too hard and rest too little.”

“Been watching me, have you?”

The words slip out before I can stop them. His eyes darken slightly, and a charge fills the air between us. “I observe everything of importance, Domina .”

The title sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine. “Maya,” I correct automatically, for the fiftieth time.

Afternoons bring different challenges. Teaching him to wrap his hands properly, trying to ignore how my fingers tingle every time they brush his skin. Showing him proper footwork for modern boxing, pretending not to notice how his shorts cling to powerful, bronze thighs.

“Keep your guard up,” I remind him during mitt work. He’s holding back, I can tell, but even at half-strength his punches make my arms ache through the pads. “Good. Now double up that jab.”

He complies, movement fluid as water. Then he does something—a subtle shift of weight, a twist of hip—and suddenly I’m looking at the ceiling, feet swept from under me so smoothly I didn’t even feel it coming.

“Apologies.” He offers a hand up, concern warring with what might be satisfaction in his expression. “Old habits.”

“Show me that again.” I dust myself off, trying to ignore how my skin burns where he touched me. “Slower this time.”

He demonstrates the move with excruciating patience, explaining how it works against an aggressive opponent. I find myself studying his face as much as the technique—the way his brow furrows in concentration, how his lips shape the Latin words that the device translates.

“You’re staring, Domina .”

Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m observing your technique.”

“Of course.” That sly smile again, the one that makes my stomach flip. “My technique requires such careful study?”

“Someone’s getting cocky.” I aim a playful jab at his ribs, which he easily deflects. “Maybe we should work on cardio instead.”

The treadmill proves entertaining, at least. His first attempt has him gripping the handrails as though he’s steering a chariot, expression shifting from suspicion to delight as he gets the hang of it.

“The ground moves while you remain in place,” he marvels during a water break. “Your world is full of wonders.”

The casual comment hits me like a punch to the solar plexus. Your world. The guilt resurfaces—he still doesn’t know the full truth. Still thinks he’s just in some strange foreign land. Still trusts me, despite my endless string of lies.

As Tony’s men show up for their daily check, I’m wondering how and when to tell him the truth. I force myself to push the guilt aside. We have bigger problems. Now we have less than five weeks to get him ready for whatever brutal underground match Tony has planned. Five weeks to figure a way out of this mess.

The apartment proves to be its own challenge. Close quarters, shared spaces, the constant awareness of each other. After that first night in the bed, he’s insisted on sleeping on the couch despite my protests, though I catch him wincing sometimes when his tall frame unfolds in the morning.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell him one night, finding him doing pushups beside the couch. “The bed’s plenty big enough to share.”

He freezes mid-rep, muscles tensing. “That would be improper, Domina .”

“Maya. More improper than you killing your back on that torture device?”

“The couch is perfectly adequate.” But something flickers in his eyes—interest? Temptation? “Your honor must be protected.”

I snort. “My honor’s just fine, thanks. But your training will suffer if you don’t get proper rest.”

“Then I shall endure.” He resumes his pushups, each movement precise despite fatigue. “As I have endured worse.”

The words trigger another wave of guilt. What has he endured? What memories haunt him during those nights I hear him pacing? But I can’t ask—not without revealing how much I already know about his past.

Days blur together. Training, watching, pretending everything’s normal while Tony’s men lurk and time ticks down.

“Your father is not here,” he observes one evening as we clean up after closing. “Did you expect him gone this long?”

“Tony’s still got him working some job in a place called Reno.” I try to keep my emotions schooled. Truth be told, I’m glad he’s not around—less chance for him to get into trouble. “Probably best for everyone.”

He studies me with those too-perceptive eyes. “You carry his burdens as your own.”

“Someone has to.” I use my broom to attack a pile of dust with more force than necessary. “He’s family.”

“Family obligations can become chains.” His voice carries old pain. “Or wings, depending on how we choose to bear them.”

I stop sweeping, turning to face him. “Getting philosophical on me?”

“Merely observing.” He takes the broom from my hands, our fingers brushing. “As I observe many things.”

The air thickens between us. He’s close enough I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the pulse beating in his throat. One step and I could…

The front door chimes—Tony’s thugs arriving for their evening check-in, right on schedule. Victor and I spring apart like guilty teenagers. The gladiator drops into his submissive pose, eyes down as he sweeps, while I paste on my professional trainer face.

But later, after the mobsters leave and we’re upstairs in my apartment, I catch him watching me with that same intensity. “Sleep well, Domina ,” he murmurs, voice pitched so low I can barely hear it.

“Maya,” I correct automatically, but assume his years of training won’t let him use such an informal form of address. Just like we both know this attraction between us is dangerous and impossible—wrong on so many levels.

Still, I lie awake listening to him breathe in the next room, wondering if he’s as aware of me as I am of him. Wondering how long we can maintain this delicate balance of truth and lies, duty and desire.

Tomorrow brings more training, more pretense, more carefully maintained distance. But for now, I let myself remember the way his eyes darken when they meet mine, the ghost of a smile that appears more often now, the quiet strength that draws me like gravity.

Our remaining weeks suddenly feel both too long and not nearly long enough.