Chapter 16
Matteo
Leo’s fists move fast today. I told him I need a break, because my body is tired. He told me to stop wasting energy on girls. I laughed. I’ve only been with one, went back for seconds, and plan to raise that number.
Sweat stings my eyes as I duck his punch. My knuckles hit his ribs, a hollow thud echoing through the space.
I throw one more strike but miss and he lands a shot to my side. “Fuck,” I hiss.
“You’re angry,” he says.
“When am I not?” I joke, I’m angry almost ninety percent of the day. Nothing new. He’s known me since birth, he jokes I came out with fists clenched, already ready to fight.
I glance across the training zone. My eyes find her like they always do. Aoife, knife in hand. Facing off with her trainer. She’s stiff, but something about the way she’s standing tells me she’s ready to try what I taught her.
I gave the knife back just before the end of the school day.
Custom-hilted. Smaller grip. Perfectly balanced for her size.
Milo adjusted the weight, then sharpened the edge.
When I sent her the message telling her where to pick her knife up, I also told her what to say to her trainer, just to piss him off.
She squares her shoulders, chin up, voice cutting through the noise so everyone hears her. “You don’t want to give me a different knife, which I’ve asked for. Don’t. So, I made this one to fit my hand better. If you don’t like it? Then give me the knife I want.”
Her trainer pauses. Blinks, then walks away, shaking his head. Aoife turns slightly, and there it is, the smile. A real one. Not twisted in rage. Not buried beneath fear. Just… hers.
She slices, pivots, deflects, the blade flashing with each turn. It’s not survival anymore, it’s hunger for control.
Leo throws another punch, but I block it, and he laughs. “One day I’ll catch you not focusing.”
I laugh as I unwrap my hands. “Yeah, maybe one day.”
“Trial two is after the weekend,” he says. “I’ll get the information tonight. Be ready.”
“I always am.” Leo walks away to the other trainers, most likely to talk about the next trial. Trial of Silence. Although I have to admit, this one might be the easiest one for me, I don't talk much anyway.
After training I shower and change. The sun burns low, bleeding orange across the sky as I head to the roof. She’s there, perched on the edge, wind pulling at her hair.
“Evening, little lamb.” I run my hands through my hair, as she turns and smiles.
“Evening.”
I wish I could stand here and stare at her beauty, but I can’t. She needs to be trained, and she might not admit it if I asked her, but she looks tired.
“Knife?” She nods, pulling it from the waistband of her leggings, and that gives me a moment to look over how fucking sexy her body is.
Only one thought hits me, I need to get her naked on my bed, so I can admire and worship it better.
Taking the knife from her, I ask. “Better? Can you feel the balance?” She nods again. “Good. Now show me your grip.”
She holds it out. I walk behind her, adjusting her fingers. Her hair brushes my jaw when she shifts. Our breathing finds the same rhythm.
“Not too tight. If you hold it like you’re afraid of it, it’ll cut you.” I guide her through the motion, slice, pivot, deflect. Her breath is heavy but steady. “You’re getting it,” I say, watching her pivot smoothly on her back foot.
She repeats the move, more fluid this time. The blade dances with her. It’s not perfect, hell it's far from perfect but still better than what she was doing.
After another round of drills, she leans back against the stone, chest rising and falling.
“What are you smiling for?” I ask, wiping sweat from my brow.
“You,” she says. “You’re the first one to see me. Not the O’Brien girl. Just… me.”
“It’s easy to do,” I reply. “When your family is a family I should be killing, not fucking.”
She laughs, a low sound. But it’s real, and I like it.
“Still,” she says, eyes flickering with something too close to hope. “You’ve given me a few moments I never thought I’d get.”
I don’t know what to say to that. One thing I know. I’m already in too deep.
“Can I ask a question?” She looks at her knife in my hand, as I move it between my fingers.
I nod.
“You never smile.”
“I do smile,” I correct her.
“Okay, you smile, but it never reaches your eyes.” She takes a step closer, taking the knife from me. “Why?”
“Because there hasn’t been anything in my life that’s worth that type of smile.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and without looking at the name, I already know it’s one of my brothers or Leo. I put the phone to my ear.
“Trial two is here,” Milo says.
“On my way.”
I lean close, my lips brushing hers. “Good night little lamb.”
Two minutes from the roof, I walk into my room, Marco and Milo are half-dressed, in mid-argument over some breach Marco’s found in the Blackstone network.
I drag a chair across to them, spin it, and drop down. “Trial Two?” I question, shutting them both up.
I read the line in the file again.
Sensory deprivation. Twenty-four hours. Alone in the dark. Your mind is the arena. You can’t run. You can’t scream. You can only face yourself.
I toss the file on the table and lean back.
Marco mutters, “They’re not testing strength now. They want to crack your head open.”
“They won’t,” I say, standing. “Not me.”
Marco shakes his head. “You can’t punch this fight. That rage in you? Locked in with no outlet? It’s a bomb waiting to blow.’”
“I know,” I say.
That’s why I have to win this one.
They’ve tested my strength. Now they want to test my soul.
This is the one they all think I will lose. I have to prove to them I won’t.
“We can simulate some of it,” Marco says.
“And I’ll work on your panic response,” Milo adds. “You need to train your body not to freak out.”
“You both think I’ll break?” I ask, eyes flicking between them, it’s not like them to doubt me, but they know what’s going on in my head too. Her.
“No,” Marco says. “We know you won’t.”
Leo steps into my room with a case.
“You read it?” I nod. “This is the real trial,” Leo says. “No edges to hold. No sounds to ground you. Just time.”
Inside: a blackout hood, tight compression gear, a strip of nutrient tablets. Survival boiled down to nothing.
I lift the hood. The fabric clings to my fingers damp and airless. I squeeze it in my fist, already feeling the itch crawl up the back of my throat.
Leo’s eyes pin mine. “Sunday night. Vault 7. Twenty-four hours. If the enemy catches you, can you stay quiet?”
“We’ll be outside,” Marco says. “Monitoring.”
“And if I start screaming to let me out?”
“You won’t,” Milo says quickly.
Leo leaves, and I lie on my bed, hoping sleep will come to me tonight.
Because right now, my brain won’t shut the fuck up.
Every blink drags her back sweat slick on her collarbone, blade trembling, that defiant little smirk like she knows exactly how dangerous she is to me and doesn't give a damn. That mouth I’ve tasted. Those eyes I’ve drowned in.
I see the way she looks at me when I correct her grip, like I’m the first person who ever told her she can be dangerous if she wants to be.
It should be lust. Quick. Burn and gone.
It isn’t.
It’s becoming an obsession now.
It’s her voice in my head when everything else goes quiet. Her laugh echoing through the cracks of my control. Her face haunting the dark behind my eyes.
She’s in every bruise and in the ghost of her touch, tracing my knuckles like I mattered.
She isn’t trouble. She’s war. And I’m not sure I want to win.