Chapter 6
FIRST ROUND (LIZ)
Iwake to silence. Heavy, complete silence, the kind that tells you, you slept deeper than you intended.
I blink up at the ceiling. Pale gray. Minimalist. Not my apartment. I come up too fast, my brain still half a step behind.
Leo’s place. Brooklyn.
Right.
I inhale to a count of four, exhale for four more, annoyed with myself for how much this matters.
I slept. I slept deeply. In a fighter’s apartment.
My therapist would have a field day with that.
I push a hand through my hair—a tangled disaster zone I’ll need industrial equipment to fix later—and take in the room again. Spare. Masculine. Everything squared off and in its place.
No clutter. No chaos buzzing under the surface.
Very Leo.
My gaze drifts to the closed door, and I pause to listen. Not because I expect danger but because old wiring doesn’t care about logic. It fires when it wants.
I swing my legs out of bed. The floor is cool under my feet, my body still loose from deep sleep. That annoys me even more.
The window pulls me toward it, the Brooklyn Bridge cutting through the morning haze. Sunlight spills in across my forearm, and for a moment I let myself breathe.
Then the scent hits me.
Coffee. Rich. Dark. Fresh.
Of course he’s awake. Of course he’s already up and doing things. Of course he’s probably half-dressed and infuriatingly attractive while doing absolutely nothing.
It’s not fear, more of an inconvenient awareness that complicates my life.
This is bad.
He’s the exact kind of entanglement I rebuilt my life to sidestep. And somehow I’m in his kitchen.
I crack the door open and step into the living room. The space is washed in bright morning light, warm and soft against glass and steel. Brooklyn hums somewhere in the distance. It should feel ordinary. It doesn’t.
Because Leo Carver is in the kitchen.
Barefoot. Sweatpants low on his hips.
Shirtless.
All muscles and bruises and morning light.
I shouldn’t stare.
I stare anyway.
He moves with a casual ease that makes every solid line of muscle impossible to ignore.
A bruise spreads across his ribs, deep and purple.
A mark shadows the angle of his jaw, a small cut on his brow.
Those are the only imperfections on him, and somehow they make him worse.
More dangerous. More real. Everything I ordered myself not to want.
Heat moves through me in one fast, humiliating sweep.
I grip the doorframe.
This is bad.
This is very bad.
He turns, sensing me, and the shift in his expression is immediate.
Awareness. Focus. A pull I feel in my core.
“Morning.” His voice is warm and even, sliding down my spine. No trace of the violence from last night. No hint of the chaos he walked through to get me out of that club.
“Morning.” I aim for composed, but my voice wobbles.
He lets his attention sweep over me before meeting my eyes again. He doesn’t let it linger, but I feel the pass of it all the same.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Well.” I pretend the normalcy of the question doesn’t unsettle me. “Which is inconvenient.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m not apologizing for that.”
I look away before I give him anything else.
He pours coffee and slides the mug within reach, close enough for comfort, far enough to respect my space. A deliberate choice. Thoughtful in a way that’s almost worse than careless.
I take the mug. Warmth settles into my palms. I drink.
“Jamaican Blue Mountain?” I ask before I order myself to stop.
His head turns, interest sharpening. “Good palate.”
“It’s smooth.” I take another slow sip. “No bitterness. Hard to mistake for anything else.”
Leo hums, turning back to the stove. “You drink it?”
“It’s my mom’s favorite.” I leave it there.
He glances back at me but doesn’t push. And that makes everything worse.
Because while I’m trying very hard to act composed, my traitorous body is cataloging every detail—the breadth of his back, the pull of muscle under skin, the trail of sunlight across his shoulders.
God. He’s built to ruin good judgment.
His focus returns to me, calm and unreadable. He doesn’t try to flirt. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t do anything he could get away with doing.
He just stands there, giving me room to breathe. And the space he gives me makes me want him even more.
“Your ribs,” I say.
His brows lift. “What about them?”
“That bruise,” I gesture, “you took a hit.”
He shrugs. “Part of the job.”
I put the mug down and step closer. His attention locks on me, pupils narrowing with focus. He doesn’t retreat or tense. He simply waits, controlled as stone.
“Raise your arm.”
A beat of hesitation, then he lifts it, watching me. The bruise draws tight across his ribs, the spread of violet deepening. I reach out, letting my fingertips graze warm skin as I palpate lightly, testing depth and sensitivity.
Leo doesn’t move, and that restraint feels more dangerous than motion.
My hand stays clinical. The rest of me doesn’t.
He adjusts to my touch instead of pretending not to feel it. His abdomen firms under my palm.
“Any sharp pain when you inhale?” I keep my voice level.
“No.” His tone drops an octave, darker and rougher than a moment ago.
“Dizziness? Tightness?”
“No.”
“The bruise is angry, but it’s controlled. You’ll feel it even more tomorrow.”
“I’ll try not to fall apart, Doc.”
I almost laugh. “Please do hold it together. I don’t have time to rebuild you.”
My thumb grazes the edge of the bruised skin—checking, finalizing—and his control slips just enough for me to catch it. That small, restrained reaction tells me I’ve reached the pain point.
It’s my cue. I pull my hand back. The space between us hums—warm, charged, aware of itself.
I’m the one who steps away first.
Leo doesn’t move. His focus stays on me, following the retreat as if he feels the loss of contact as clearly as I do.
“Thank you,” he says finally.
I reach for my coffee again, anchoring myself. Distance reclaimed.
“Don’t get used to it,” I say lightly. “I’m not playing nurse while I’m here.”
A corner of his mouth curves. “You are a nurse.”
“For six more weeks. Then I start med school and trade the ER for lectures.”
He files the information carefully. “A doctor.”
“Eventually.”
He sets a plate on the counter and nudges it toward me—eggs, toast, fruit. Exactly what I expected.
I pick up the fork and take a bite. Leo leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with a focus that makes my skin prickle.
I’m halfway through breakfast when the intercom buzzes.
Leo pushes off the counter and crosses to the panel. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Russo and Ms. Carver are here to see you.”
He glances back at me. The look is brief but deliberate, a silent check-in before he answers.
“Send them up.”
A knock follows a minute later. Leo opens the door. Nate wheels in my suitcase without ceremony. Eden follows, garment bag over one arm, grocery sack in the other.
“Morning.” Nate gives me a once-over before his attention slides to Leo. A grin flashes. “We brought oat milk. I know you’ve got enough protein in this place to fuel a training camp, but you drink your precious coffee black.”
Leo’s mouth twitches. He looks at the carton, then at me.
Nate sets the oat milk on the counter with exaggerated care. “Unsweetened. This is the brand they have at home.”
“Thanks,” I say, pouring a splash into my mug. “For this. For all of it.”
Eden’s expression softens. “We brought your things.”
She sets the garment bag on the sofa and lowers her voice. “Clothes, toiletries, the stuff from your bathroom. I grabbed what was on your dresser too, and the books you’ve been living in.”
Nate adds a stack of medical textbooks to the counter and rolls his shoulders, loose and amused. “Your backpack weighed a thousand pounds. Respectfully, this is a cry for help.”
I laugh, the sound slipping out before I can stop it.
The apartment changes with them here. Same walls, different gravity. Less quiet. More witnesses.
Leo gestures toward the stove. “You want eggs?”
Before I answer, Nate’s gaze flicks between us, amusement sharpening.
“Relax,” he says, easy as a jab. “I fed my girlfriend.”
Leo laughs under his breath. Then his eyes cut to Nate, something playful and sharp beneath the surface. “Are you two ever going to let it go?”
Maybe someday, they will. Leo putting up resistance when Nate and Eden first got together is still close enough to remember—the raised voices, the cracked restraint, the moment brotherhood turned physical before snapping back into place.
Nate’s grin widens. “We’re letting it go,” he announces. “We’re also bringing it up forever.”
Leo’s laugh follows, a low sound that hits my spine before it hits my ears.
Eden doesn’t engage. She reaches for me instead, fingers warm around my wrist, grounding.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you set up.”
As she leads me toward the hall, I feel Leo’s attention stay with me—calm, unfinished—but I don’t look back.
Inside the guest room, Eden closes the door behind us and exhales.
“Oh my God,” she says softly. “Are you okay?”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m not sure what I am.”
Eden sits beside me, shoulder to shoulder. She doesn’t rush it.
“Do you want to tell me who that man was?” she asks gently. “You were married?”
“I was.”
“You and I met when you were, what, twenty-two? You must’ve been really young.”
I stare at my hands until I can answer. “Yeah.”
Eden waits.
“I met him my first year of college. Fell stupidly in love and married him before I turned twenty.” I pause, searching for language that won’t pull me under. “He was breathtaking. Beautiful. Strong. The kind of man everyone notices.”
I don’t mention how Leo trips the same wires. How familiar that feeling is when I look at him.
“At first it was good. Really good.” I work through a swallow. “Then he started fighting underground. MMA. Got caught. Banned.” I shrug. “His career fell apart. He got frustrated. Angry. Started taking it out on me.”
That’s the part people never talk about, what happens after the fall.
And Leo has farther to fall than Travis ever did.
Eden’s expression tightens, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“Bruises,” I continue briskly. “ER visits. Apologies that sounded convincing until the next time.”
She waits.
“Then I got pregnant. I was terrified but... hopeful, you know? Thought maybe it would change things.” I shake my head. “It didn’t. We had a fight. A bad one. He shoved me.”
I pause.
“I lost the baby that night.”
“Oh my God, Liz,” Eden whispers, her arm sliding around my shoulders.
I keep my eyes on the floor. “I left him two weeks later. Packed what I could and flew to Seattle, then from there to New York. Thought flying crisscross would muddy the trail.” I let out a short breath.
“I filed for divorce. Changed my name. Used the money my parents gave me to buy the place at the Cherokee. Enrolled in nursing school.” I glance at her.
“That’s when I put up the roommate ad. You answered. You know the rest.”
Eden’s jaw tightens. “Jesus, Liz. I had no idea.”
“I didn’t want you to,” I say quietly. “I just wanted it over. And most days... it is. I don’t think about him. I don’t think about any of it.”
Eden studies me for a moment. “That explains a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why you never let anything get serious. Why you keep it short and casual. Why me warning you about Leo being a hit-and-run kind of guy didn’t bother you at all.”
She isn’t wrong.
“I know how this goes. I just need it not to go that way this time.”
Eden doesn’t push.
I lean back on my hands, drawing a breath that reaches all the way down.
“I was pre-med when I met him. Planning to go straight through to med school. He ruined that plan once.” I pause.
“Now he shows up just as I’m about to get back on track.
Like he has some kind of radar for the worst possible timing. ”
“We won’t let him come close,” Eden says firmly. “There’s no way he can get past Leo.”
“I don’t know how he found me. I hate that I’m inconveniencing your brother.” I hesitate. “I also don’t love being in his apartment.”
Eden waits.
“Boxers seem to be my kryptonite,” I add dryly.
Her mouth curves, but she doesn’t comment or tease. “You’re not trapped here, Liz. You’re protected.”
I shake my head. “Protected sits way too close to controlled for my taste.”
“Not with Leo,” she says without hesitation. “I know my brother. He’ll never cross a line that way. You’re not alone this time.”
A soft buzz cuts through the room. My phone lights up on the nightstand.
Eden reaches for it and hands it to me.
JESSICA
Today is yours
Tomorrow evening we need visibility
A charity event at the Met
Formal, controlled, athlete crowd
Cameras will be there, but we manage them
I show Eden the text. “That’s actually perfect. Controlled environment. Security. Easy exits,” she says.
“A gala. With Leo. Pretending to be a couple.”
“Pretending,” Eden echoes, eyes narrowing slightly in a way that tells me she saw something in the kitchen I didn’t mean to show.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Everything okay in there?” Leo asks through the wood.
Eden squeezes my hand once, then stands. “Yeah. We’re good.”
She opens the door. He’s in the hall, shirt on now. His attention moves between us, assessing without interrogating.
“You need anything?” he asks me.
“No.”
He doesn’t push. His focus lingers a second longer, warm and even.
“Come on,” Eden says gently. “Let’s grab your things. I’ll help you unpack.”
We step past Leo, and I swear—just for a heartbeat—the air shifts between us.
Not because he moves closer.
He stays exactly where he is, giving me the distance I need. Somehow that restraint is worse than any move he could’ve made.
Eden catches it. Her eyebrows lift.
“Liz.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re in so much trouble,” she says quietly once we’re back in the guest room with the door closed.
“I know.”
“Six weeks of that?” She gestures toward the door, toward Leo on the other side. “You’re not going to make it.”
“I’ll make it,” I say, more confident than I feel.
She gives me a look. “Right.”
“I can do this,” I say defensively. “It’s just acting.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Just acting.”
I sink onto the bed. “I’m completely screwed,” I whisper.
Because if I leave, he pays.
If I stay, history could repeat itself.
Eden sits beside me, shoulder to shoulder.
“Yeah,” she agrees. “You really are.”