Chapter 7 Lyra
LYRA
The warehouse looks the same as it always does before a tournament, like something forgotten by the city, left to rust and rot just enough that it becomes useful again.
I pull my car around to the back. Three duffel bags ride shotgun with me, packed to the brim with stuff from Frank's Gym where I'm stationed in between these damn tournaments. Sometimes they host them there, but when the event's bigger or the organizers want more privacy, we end up here.
I step out and sling the first bag over my shoulder. The air smells rancid around here, like moldy brick and rust.
I hate this place.
Still, it's better than my previous job, and it's all for my goal.
Inside, the front lights buzz like a swarm of bees. I don't bother looking for more light, I just head toward the back room where I'll set up the med bay. It's small, tiled, one dusty cabinet, a tray, folding chairs, and an original sink that may or may not work depending on the mood it's in.
I drop the duffel bag on the floor and turn on the lights, revealing rusty brown patterns where blood and God knows what else has seeped into the grout over the years.
My shoulders ache from carrying the supplies. Two more bags to go. I roll my neck, cracking it, and head back to my car.
As I cross the building again, I hear voices.
Shouting. I can tell it sounds like sparring, as the grunts and the rhythmic slap of fists hitting training pads get louder.
Men. Always men. I keep my eyes forward, focusing on getting the rest of my gear. The sooner I set up, the sooner I can lock myself in my little blood-stained room.
Both remaining duffel bags sit by my car. I grab the handles, hefting them up. One's heavier than I remembered.
"Fuck," I say, adjusting my grip. I tell myself I can carry both bags at once, one trip, even though I know damn well I shouldn't.
Twenty steps inside, my fingers start to cramp. I set the heavier bag down for just a second, flexing my hand.
That's when I hear it, a sharp command bouncing through the warehouse.
"Not like that," someone yells sharply. "Like this."
I glance over despite myself.
Inside the ring, a few men are sparring. One holds pads, the other throws punches while another looks on.
I'm drawn to the one hitting the pads. He's shirtless and his back is covered with tattoos flowing over defined muscle. Sweat traces the contours of his shoulder blades as he moves. He's demonstrating something to another fighter, his movements fluid, powerful.
My mouth goes dry.
Fuck.
Fighters are arrogant assholes. But goddamn, do they have the best bodies.
I shouldn't be watching. I know better.
But the way he moves, the raw athleticism, the controlled violence, sends a shameful heat through my core.
Still, I linger for a moment before I force myself to look away. These men are not for me. They're walking embodiments of everything I hate, everything I'm trying to escape. Beautiful or not, they're just flesh I'll eventually have to stitch back together.
I pick up the bag again and start walking, but my eyes betray me, and then, like a fucking idiot, I turn my head just enough to keep watching and accidentally slam one of my bags into some metal folding chairs.
The crash echoes like a gunshot, four or five chairs falling to the ground.
The men stop. They turn toward the noise.
I immediately look at the men and of course every head turns.
Including Mr. Sexy Tattooed Back.
And in that moment, my stomach drops through the floor.
It's him. Those green eyes. That face.
Declan Killaney.
Our eyes lock across the distance. Recognition flares in his expression.
Jesus Christ. The universe really does hate me.
My eyes drop, I don't know, right to his stupidly chiseled chest and those defined abs.
Oh, fuck me.
Heat floods my face. Partly embarrassment at being caught staring, partly residual attraction that now feels like betrayal to myself. I'd been admiring a man who once held a gun to my head.
I snatch up the bag and move quickly toward my room, like hell itself is on my heels. I refuse to look back, even as I feel like his eyes are burning into me.
Inside, I slam the door harder than necessary and drop the bags.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I say, pressing my palms against my eyes.
I need to focus. I start unpacking immediately. Gauze, butterfly closures, antibiotic ointment, suture kits, lidocaine.
I count rolls of tape, even though I know exactly how many there are. I do anything to stop thinking about him.
But it doesn't work. It's like my mind is saying don't think about him, to only think about him.
Because I keep seeing him. The curve of his spine. The definition of muscle. The way his sweat made him...
Stop.
I shouldn't have watched him.
But I didn't know it was him.
But you liked it.
I shake the thought loose and open the cabinet. My palms feel sweaty. I swipe them on my jeans and start stacking antiseptic bottles.
And now those images of him out there become tangled with older ones, him covered in his cousin's blood, his face twisted in grief and rage, screaming at me to save a life I wasn't permitted to touch.
Why is he here anyway? Is he fighting? No. Training someone maybe? And why did he just stare at me? Even the others turned away when they saw who made the noise.
And it's not just the way he looks at me that bothers me. Okay, maybe it is. Just a little.
But it's more the way he sees me. The way he looked at me the other day when I wrapped the cuts on his hands. When he asked, "Do you think I'm going to hurt you?"
I'm not scared, but I feel unsettled around him. I've spent years mastering the art of invisibility, but he just looks right through it all.
Even if his eyes are filled with blame, and he sees me like a target or maybe his redemption, at least he fucking sees me. It's something. More than I've gotten in years.
That must be why my body reacted to him, why I feel something. I haven't let that happen in years, if ever.
The thought makes me sad. So starved for attention that even bad attention I'll latch onto. Jesus, I need to get my shit together.
And I hate that all this stirs something in me.
I need to get a grip. Remember to not let my guard down. Protect myself. He's just like those men that have done terrible things that I've seen and had to fix. They don't care about anyone but themselves.
I will not be fooled.
After a few minutes, my breathing steadies. My mind clears, and I feel like I've taken back the reins of my betraying body.
I'm arranging some supplies when the door opens behind me.
Please don't be him.
Please don't be him.
I start to turn, and it's like I already know. Like I can feel a presence shift that is unexplainable, just felt.
There he stands. Shirt still off. Still looking like that.
He's breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. More tattoos I didn't notice in my state of panic are visible now. They cover his chest. I follow them down his sides, across his tight stomach, and watch as they disappear below the waistband of his shorts.
Goddammit.
I freeze. Just for a second. I turn away quickly, busying myself with a box of gloves.
"What?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended. Like I need to prove to myself I don't care.
"I tore open my knuckles again," he says.
I make the mistake of looking at his hands, but my eyes betray me, wandering past them to his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the V-shape that of course he has.
I swallow. Hard.
"There's a bandages in there." I point to an open bag, desperate to get him out. "Take some."
He doesn't move.
"No," he says, dragging a metal chair from the corner, cutting through this ridiculous tension. He unfolds it, sits, and rests his arm on the tray. "You're the professional, aren't you? You do it."