Chapter 18 Keira
KEIRA
Three days post-blast and I'm finally starting to feel like myself again.
Some bruises formed on my ribs, but they've turned that soft yellow-green color, the kind that doesn't hurt so much as remind you what pain felt like.
The headache's gone, and the stiffness in my muscles is loosening.
I can breathe without wincing. I can move without feeling like my body's held together with duct tape and prayer.
So I'm going to work out, move a little, because I'm sick of lying still.
I pull on black leggings and a sports bra, tying my hair back into a messy ponytail. The mirror shows some light dark circles under my eyes, but I look alive, so that's something.
The house has been quiet. Octavian's been here, of course, but he's kept his distance since our argument. He checks the locks. He makes his rounds. He sits in the chair outside my bedroom door at night sometimes, I can hear him, but he doesn't talk. Doesn't push. Doesn't tell me what to do.
I haven't pushed him because I don't know what to say or think. As much as I hate to admit it, I may have overreacted a bit with him. Leaning into my anger to protect myself, to keep people at arm's length.
I do that a lot. It's easier to be reactive than it is to sit in emotions that can wreck me if they go south. And falling for someone who's only here temporarily to protect me and then will be leaving is exactly what going south means.
I told Calli once that it's easier to ignore feelings than to acknowledge them. She thinks I'm wrong, that it's the other way around when the feelings are deep.
Anyway, I need to move, maybe sweat out all this internal turmoil.
Most importantly, I need to do something other than lie in bed replaying the explosion, the screams, the way Octavian's arms locked around me before everything went black.
I head downstairs and make my way to the basement gym I never use. It's a room I had built because I thought I would be this fitness person, but I'm not.
Declan told me not to do it and watched with great enthusiasm when I went with him to some health store and bought four hundred dollars' worth of protein powders, only to come home and almost throw up when I tried them.
So now I have this space with treadmills, stationary bikes, a bench press, free weights, a few other machines I have no idea how to use, and six yoga mats.
The last time I was in there was about two months ago when I brought in Chinese food and watched a reality show on the TV because my upstairs TV wasn't working.
It's a place I can be alone, so in this moment, I'm glad I had the damn thing built.
I push open the door, and I stop dead in my tracks.
Octavian.
He doesn't see me at first. He's lying back on the bench press, shirtless, in nothing but a pair of black shorts, lifting what looks like every single plate I own.
His shorts hang low on his hips, and the rest of him is, God, the rest of him is a masterpiece of muscle and ink. Script in what might be Romanian flows across his ribs, along with other images and designs. He's completely covered.
Holy. Hell.
His abs ripple with every rep, sweat gliding down the carved ridges of his torso and neck. His chest rises and falls in deep, even breaths, and his arms flex as he steadies the bar and presses it up again.
I stand there like an idiot, watching him work, the way his body moves. I'm completely still, hypnotized by the sight of this brooding Romanian terminator working out like it's the only way to quiet the demons in his head.
Heat, flat out, no denying it, pools low in my stomach, and I'm definitely getting completely aroused by this perfect specimen of a man.
He finishes his set and sits up, grabbing a towel and wiping sweat from his face and neck. His muscles shift with the motion, every line defined, it's like a sculpture that's moving.
I can't look away.
Then he looks up, and our eyes meet.
For a moment, neither of us moves. His dark gaze locks onto mine, unreadable, and I feel exposed, like he knows exactly how long I've been standing here. Like he can read every inappropriate thought that just ran through my head.
"You feeling better?" he asks casually, like this isn't some thirst trap come to life.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to step into the room like this is normal. Like I wasn't just standing in the doorway gawking at him. "Yeah. I didn't expect you to be down here," I say, suddenly aware of how tight my leggings are.
He stands, and the room instantly feels smaller. His massive frame, all six-foot-six of solid muscle and intimidation, fills the space. He wipes more sweat off his chest, dragging the towel across his abs, and I realize my mouth has gone dry.
"I got restless," he says, tossing the towel aside as he walks over to my dumbbells. "Had to get a little physical time in."
Physical time. Jesus Christ. What is that, some kind of euphemism for sweating so much he releases pheromones that make women's ovaries drop an egg?
I force myself to look at his face instead of his body. It doesn't help. His jaw is sharp, his eyes too intense, and there's a faint sheen of sweat on his temple that makes me want to—
Stop. Calm down.
I cross the room and step onto the treadmill, setting it to a slow walk. "So you were worried about me?" I joke, instantly regretting how I sound.
I don't know why I say it. Maybe because I need to break whatever this tension is between us. Maybe because seeing him like this makes me feel bold in a way I shouldn't.
He doesn't answer me, just looks at me in the mirror, and doesn't deny it.
He picks up a set of dumbbells that look absurdly heavy and starts curling. His biceps flex with each rep, the tattoos on his arms shifting with the movement. I can see the veins in his forearms, the way his grip tightens around the weights, the controlled power in every motion.
I focus on the digital screen in front of me.
Don't look. Don't look.
This is fine. I'm fine. I'm just working out in my own basement with a half-naked Romanian bodyguard who makes my knees weak. Totally normal.
I look.
He's still staring at me, but now there's something softer behind the usual steel.
"What's the plan now that you're better?" he asks, his voice cutting through with each curl he does.
I shrug. "Callum told me to continue my foundation work while they gather more intel, so I'll do that. I have an idea, so we'll see."
He nods. "What you're good at," he says, finishing a rep and setting the weights down.
I roll my eyes. "Someone thinks only I can do it well, so let's test that theory."
He smirks and then walks toward me.
I keep my eyes on the screen, even though I can feel the heat of his body radiating toward me. Even with me on the treadmill, elevated slightly, he towers over me. His shadow falls across the machine.
"Hey," he says, his voice dark and soft. "I just wanted you to know that I don't just think of you as a job. I know you're a person."
I nearly trip.
My hand shoots out to grab the handlebar to steady myself, and I look up at him. "Oh," I say, stunned. "Well, thank you. I don't really think you're an asshole. I mean, maybe a little." I smile before I can stop myself.
He actually smiles back.
Smiles.
My stomach does a backflip.
I've never seen him smile.
I didn't know he could.
My eyes drop, because I have to, and that's when I notice a tattoo on his upper left arm. A boy's face. Young. Maybe teenage. It's different from the others, more realistic, more detailed.
"Who's that?" I ask, nodding to the tattoo.
Octavian stiffens, and his demeanor changes.
His jaw tightens, and the warmth in his expression vanishes. "My brother," he says, his voice flat.
I glance at the tattoo again, at the boy's face. "He's much younger than you?"
"Yes." He shakes his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. "He was," he says, clearing his throat. "He died."
The air leaves my lungs, and my eyes widen in shock and embarrassment.
"Oh," I say, my hand trembling. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
"You didn't know." He wipes his face again and turns away, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. "Anyway, I'll let you get your workout in. Just don't sneak out, ok? Please just tell me if you need to go somewhere, and I'll take you."
I nod, my throat tight.
He turns to leave, his broad back covered in more ink, and I watch him go, my chest aching for reasons I don't fully understand.
He stops at the door.
"Uh, C9," he says, looking back. "That's the place that has your favorite coffee, right?"
I blink. "Yeah."
He nods.
"I had it delivered. It's in the kitchen when you want some."
And just like that, he turns and walks out, leaving me walking on a treadmill in the middle of my basement, more confused than I've ever been in my life.
I hit the stop button and press my hand to my forehead.
It's totally normal for my bodyguard to remember my favorite coffee, order it without being asked, and casually tell me while shirtless and glistening with sweat that it's waiting for me in my own kitchen.
"Ugh," I say and run my hand down my face before stepping off the treadmill.
Fuck, I think to myself.
That man is going to ruin me.
And I think some part of me is already begging him to.