Chapter 6 Leo
LEO
“I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.”
The Prime Minister’s words feel like a betrayal after the sacred ceremony we just shared.
I hold my composure—barely—as I meet her gaze. “Explain to me how protecting land is an impossibility.”
“Your Highness, while I fully support the initiative in principle, we have to consider existing commercial arrangements.” Jane Beesley spreads her hands across the papers before her. “The mining leases alone—”
“Those leases expire in two years,” I interrupt, fighting to keep my tone level. The euphoria from this morning’s ceremony drains away with each word she speaks. “We’re not asking for immediate cessation of all activity. We’re asking for protections moving forward.”
“The compensation claims would be astronomical.” She at least has the grace to look uncomfortable. “And the infrastructure projects along the coastal regions...”
I rise from my chair, unable to sit still. We’ve met in the Prime Minister’s office; Victoria arranged it. The room, with its modern furnishings and city views, feels suffocating after the open air of the sacred grove. “So, commerce outweighs culture? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Of course not. But we need to be realistic about what we can achieve in the short term.” She shuffles papers. “Perhaps if we started with a smaller subset of sites—”
“These aren’t tourist attractions we can pick and choose from,” I snap, my control finally slipping. “They’re sacred places. Our heritage. Our history.”
“Your Highness—”
“No.” I cut her off. “Review the proposals again. Find a way.”
She sighs heavily. “The issue is not making the law, the issue is passing it. If we do this, we’re likely to stall in the senate unless we have the support of both the crossbench and the opposition.”
I wrestle my control back into place. “Leave that to me. Just get the bill drafted. We can negotiate with the Tribes about those activities that are beneficial but still protect our spaces. But without that protection, we have nothing, Prime Minister.”
Jane dips her head in acknowledgement.
“Leo,” she says as I stalk to the door.
I don’t pull her up—there’s far too much history and respect between us.
“It will be an uphill battle and you are likely to lose if you force this through. Better to coax than to clash. The country is on your side right now after the issue with Hikal, but if this begins to affect jobs or housing—which the opposition will argue—then that good will shall wane very quickly.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. The damage to Hikal—a set of stone carvings by the shore in Cape Hardgrave—was the inciting incident for the fulquernah.
We had good will now, but I hate that she was right.
I nod once to show my understanding.
“Politics is fraught with compromise,” she says, her expression one of exhaustion. “You might have the ear of the Queen, but even she must bow to the will of the people.”
“Good night, Prime Minister.”
I leave the stuffy room, letting the door close with more force than strictly necessary. My bodyguards fall in behind me as I stalk through the corridors of Parliament House, my blood humming with frustrated energy.
All that ceremony, all those promises, and now...
An hour later, I’m still burning with anger and frustration as I lay into a heavy punching bag with more force than technique.
The palace gym is empty and silent but for the sound of each punch.
My fists carry the weight of my frustration—at politics, at compromise, at the constant fucking dance I must do between duty and desire.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Sweat drips down my back, my shirt since soaked through.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Your form’s slipping.”
I freeze mid-punch, my heart lurching at that familiar voice. Rangi leans against the doorframe, still in his ceremonial clothes though he’s since shed the formal peripuni.
“I wasn’t aware I needed a critique.” The words come out harsher than intended.
He pushes off the frame, moving toward me with a fluid grace that makes my mouth go dry. “No, but you look like you could use a sparring partner. Something tells me the bag isn’t giving you what you need.”
His words set off a cascade of unbidden images—his body pressed against mine, hands pinning my wrists, the heat of his skin under my palms.
What I need.
The thought alone makes my blood run hotter, frustration and desire twisting together until I can’t separate them.
What I need is to stop thinking about what his hands would feel like on my body instead of on a punching bag.
What I need is to regain control of my thoughts, my pulse, my treacherous imagination that keeps conjuring his mouth against mine.
I turn back to the bag, throwing another combination with more force than precision, knuckles stinging with the impact. “I’m fine,” I growl, the words coming out rough and strained. Even to my own ears, I sound like a man on the edge.
“Sure, you are.” He moves to hold the bag steady. “That’s why you’re trying to murder innocent equipment.”
His presence so close makes it hard to focus. I can smell the lingering scent of herbs and smoke from the ceremony, their combination mixing with something distinctly him.
“What’s wrong?”
I thump the bag hard, desperately ignoring the way my body reacts to his closeness. “The Prime Minister is concerned the bill won’t pass if we try to protect all the sites.”
Rangi looks unsurprised.
I punch again, relishing the pain in my knuckles. “It’s not acceptable. Failure isn’t acceptable. The Prime Minister—”
“—is a politician,” he interrupts. “And politicians will always choose the safe path.” His dark eyes meet mine. “But warriors? We choose the right path, even when it’s hard.”
I drop my hands, breathing hard. “And what path would you choose?”
The question carries more weight than I intend. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.
“Right now?” He steps around the bag, into my space. “I’d choose to help you work off some of that tension. Unless you’re worried about getting your ass kicked?”
I should say no. I have duties, responsibilities, a thousand reasons to maintain distance. But the anger and frustration humming in my veins needs an outlet.
I don’t even consider the dark bit of desire that simmers under my skin. “You never could take me down in training.”
His lips curve into that dangerous smile I remember from deployments. “Care to test that theory?”
This is a terrible idea.
But I’m already moving into position on the mats.
Rangi shrugs off his formal shirt, revealing a fitted black tank that shows off the tattoos adorning his arms and shoulders. Each mark tells a story—of battles fought, honours earned, traditions upheld. I force my gaze away, focusing on wrapping my hands properly.
We circle each other on the training mats, falling into the familiar patterns we perfected during deployment. He’s always fought with a mix of traditional forms and modern combat training, making him unpredictable, dangerous.
He strikes first, testing my defences. I block, counter, slip away. The rhythm of combat feels more natural than the political manoeuvring I’ve done today. Here, there’s no need for careful words or diplomatic distance. Here, we speak in the language of movement and muscle.
“You’ve been practicing,” he notes as I dodge his sweep.
“Some of us can’t afford to get rusty.”
His laugh is dark and rich. “Is that what you think?” He comes at me faster, harder. “That I’ve gone soft?”
I meet him halfway, blocking his strike and attempting to use his momentum against him. But he’s ready—twisting into my counter, knocking me off balance—and suddenly we’re grappling. His skin is hot where it brushes mine, our breath coming fast and uneven as we shift and strain.
“Not soft,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Just slow.”
His eyes flash. In one smooth move, he hooks my ankle and I go down hard, twisting at the last second to drag him with me.
We hit the mats with a thud, and Rangi uses our momentum to roll us until he’s on top.
We struggle for dominance, neither willing to yield, hands gripping, bodies pressed together.
I recover, planting my feet and shifting my weight to flip us again and drag him beneath me. I hold myself just off him, tense, my legs straddling his hips, hands clamped around his wrists, our breath coming hard and fast. I shake with the effort of not collapsing fully into his body.
We’re close. Too close. I can feel the warmth of his skin, the rapid rise and fall of his chest brushing mine with each inhale. His pulse flutters under my fingers, matching my own thundering beat. Sweat beads along his hairline. His jaw is tight, his gaze locked on mine, unreadable and intense.
Our faces are inches apart. Noses almost touching. I can see the dark flecks in his eyes. Feel the whisper of his breath against my lips.
My body screams for contact—for pressure, for friction, for something real. But I hold myself back, arms shaking now from restraint more than effort.
I’m painfully hard. Aware of every inch of space between us, and how little separates want from ruin.
It’s just a spar.
That’s the lie I cling to.
But gods, I want him. I’ve always wanted him.
And right now, I’m one slip away from letting him know it.
“Leo,” he says softly, and it’s both warning and invitation.
I should move. Should get up, walk away, maintain the distance I’ve cultivated all these years.
But fuck it. I’m tired of doing what’s proper instead of what’s right.
I lean down and capture his mouth in a hungry, desperate, burning kiss that’s five fucking years too late. His lips part with a startled breath and then Rangi responds, surging up against me kissing me back, hard and fierce. His lips are demanding, and he tastes of coffee and sin.
His hands strain against my grip, and I release them, tangling my hands in his hair as he tugs me closer.
We devour each other.
There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s fire and fury.
Teeth and tongue. Years of longing poured into every clash of our mouths.
He arches under me, pulling me down so our chests brush, hips align, breath and heat and hunger tangled into a single, burning thread.
His freed hand slides up my spine, palm flattening between my shoulder blades as if he can hold me together when I’m already spiralling apart.
A low sound escapes his throat, something between a growl and a moan, and it wrecks me. I deepen the kiss, angling to steal another gasp from him, chasing the way his mouth opens for me so easily. So perfectly.
I lose myself in the taste of him, the feel of his skin, the small sounds he makes when I—
A door slams somewhere in the distance.
Reality crashes back. I jerk away, scrambling to my feet, my heart in my throat.
“Leo, wait—”
“Shit.” I’m already moving, nearly running from the gym, from him, from everything I can’t allow myself to have.
His voice follows me, “You can’t run forever.”
Watch me.