Chapter 45
Luciano
Today the facility smelled of sweat, metal, and the faint copper tang of the dummy’s fake blood. Ava’s hands were stained red, her breathing steady despite the brutal drills I’d walked her through.
She was good.
Most people hesitated before driving a blade into flesh—even synthetic flesh. They flinched at the crack of bone or the spill of fluid, even when they knew it wasn’t real. Not Ava.
Her strikes were clean. Purposeful. Cold.
“Again,” I said, watching her reposition in front of the dummy.
But this time, she didn’t go for the thigh or arm like before. She went for the throat.
She slashed at it fast, viciously. The rubber split like wet paper, the blood pack bursting in a sticky red arc that splattered her collarbone.
She didn’t even blink. Didn’t step back, either.
She leaned in, eyes fixed on the gash she made like she was studying it for later—the angle, the pressure.
“Ava,” I said.
No response.
“Ava.”
Still nothing.
She pressed two fingers to the dummy’s neck, right where the carotid would pulse beneath human skin.
“Ava,” I said again, voice louder.
Finally, she turned, blinking like she’d just woken from a dream. “Hmm?”
“You keep going for the throat,” I said, stepping closer. “Why?”
She smiled.
“Because it’s the most efficient way to do harm,” she said. “You said so yourself.”
True. But there was something in her voice—something that made my gut tighten.
“You’re picturing someone when you’re doing that.” My voice was even. “Who is it?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she closed the distance between us. Her fingertips slid under my shirt.
Eyes hooded. Lips parted.
Her body collided with mine as her hands curled into my collar, yanking me down to her height. She shover her tongue in my mouth.
My hands shot to her waist. She tasted like adrenaline and copper. Her tongue slid against mine and I groaned—low, guttural—some primitive sound I didn’t recognize as mine.
The knife she'd been using hit the floor with a clatter. She didn’t notice.
With my help, she climbed me, wrapping her legs around my waist. Palms full of ass, I steadied her as her hips rolled against my dick. I washard and aching, wondering if I’d ever get used to the feeling she brought on.
She felt like sin and salvation. Redemption and reckoning.
She kissed like she meant to leave marks. Bruises. Memories. Like she was distracting me.
She pulled away first, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. Her breathing was ragged, her chest rising fast beneath the smear of synthetic blood on her shirt.
“Stop overthinking?” she whispered against my mouth. Then slid down my body onto her feet.
I stared at her. Heart hammering. Mind blank. Breath caught somewhere between want and worship.
“You’re right,” I agreed.
She gave me a smile that made me feel weak. I was overthinking.