Chapter 1 Jinx #2
"Wanted to see what you did to my barn." Asher walks past me to examine the equipment.
He's changed into workout clothes, loose pants, no shirt, and fuck him for having a body like that.
All dense muscle and scar tissue, tattoos sprawling across his chest and down his arms. "Forgot I had all this shit. Not bad. Better than the pits."
"Everything's better than the pits."
"True." He picks up a roll of hand wraps, starts winding them around his knuckles. "Spar with me."
"No."
"Scared?"
"Bored." I hit the bag harder. "Find someone else to play with."
"Your brothers aren't here. Your journalist friend is still recovering from getting shot. That leaves you." He finishes wrapping his hands and moves to the center of the mats. "Unless you're worried you can't take me."
I stop hitting the bag. Turn to face him.
He's standing loose, weight balanced, hands raised in a lazy guard. The scars on his torso catch the light, making him look every bit the dangerous beast he is. And underneath all that damage, muscle built from years of violence, a body designed to take punishment and keep moving.
"I put you down three times in the pit," I remind him. "You couldn't touch me."
"That was six years ago. I've learned some new tricks."
"So have I."
"Prove it."
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But he's standing there with that smug fucking smile, and my blood is already up, and maybe if I beat him badly enough, he'll finally leave me alone.
I step onto the mats.
We circle each other. Testing. Measuring. He moves differently than he did in the pit, less wild, more controlled. The desperation is gone, replaced by patience and focus.
He throws the first punch.
I slip it, counter with an elbow he barely blocks. We trade shots, feeling each other out. He's faster than I remember. Stronger too. But I'm still bigger, still meaner, still the weapon the Foundry spent years perfecting.
I land a hook to his ribs. He grunts, retaliates with a knee that I catch on my thigh. We clinch, grappling for position, and I can feel the heat of him through our clothes, can smell his sweat and underneath that, skin and musk and him.
"That all you got?" he breathes in my ear.
I throw him. He hits the mat hard, rolls, comes back up swinging. I duck under his fist and drive my shoulder into his gut, take him down again. This time I follow, pinning him with my weight, hands on his wrists.
"Yield."
"Fuck no."
He bucks his hips, trying to throw me off. I hold firm. We're chest to chest now, both breathing hard, and I can feel his heart pounding against mine.
"Yield," I repeat.
"Make me."
His legs wrap around my waist. He twists, uses leverage I wasn't expecting, and suddenly I'm the one on my back with his weight pressing me into the mat. His thighs are clamped around my hips. His hands pin my wrists above my head.
"Better," he says. "But not good enough."
I surge up, throwing him off balance. We roll across the mat, fighting for control, and somewhere in the chaos the fight turns into grinding.
His thigh slides between mine. My hand grips his hip instead of his wrist. We're rutting against each other, and he's hard, I can feel it through our clothes, and so am I.
He freezes.
I freeze.
We stare at each other, panting, tangled together on the mats.
"Jinx—"
I shove him off and scramble to my feet. My cock is straining against my pants, obvious, undeniable. He's still on the mat, propped on his elbows, looking up at me with dark eyes that see too much.
"Don't." My voice cracks. "Don't say a fucking word."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Good."
"Except—"
"I said don't."
I grab my shirt and head for the door. My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking. I've killed men with these hands. I've done things that would make most people vomit. But nothing, nothing has ever terrified me like the feeling of wanting him.
"You can't run forever."
I stop at the door. Don't turn around.
"Watch me."
"I have been. For six years." His voice is closer than it should be. He's on his feet, moving toward me. "I watched you walk away in that pit, and I've been watching ever since. Keeping track. Waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For you to stop running."
His hand lands on my shoulder. I spin, grab his wrist, twist his arm behind his back, and pin him face-first against the barn wall. My chest presses against his back. My hips press against his ass. I’m still hard, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my spine.
"I could break your arm." The words come out ragged. "I could snap it right now and you couldn't stop me."
"Do it then."
"Don't fucking test me."
"I've been testing you since I got here." He turns his head, cheek against the rough wood, one dark eye finding mine. "And you keep failing. Or passing. I can't tell which."
My grip tightens on his wrist. He inhales sharply. Pain, or pleasure, or both.
"Tell me to stop," I say.
"No."
"Tell me you don't want this."
"I can't. Because I do." He pushes back against me, deliberate, and the friction makes my vision blur. "I've wanted it since I was nineteen years old, bleeding on concrete, watching you walk away. I didn't understand it then. I do now."
"Understand what?"
"That you didn't spare me out of mercy. You spared me because you recognized something. Someone like you. Someone who wanted out." His free hand reaches back, grips my hip, pulls me closer. "You saw me, Jinx. Really saw me. And it scared the shit out of you."
"Nothing scares me."
"I do." He grinds against me again, and I bite back a groan. "Admit it."
"Fuck you."
"That's the idea."
I release him. Stagger backward. Put as much distance between us as the barn allows.
He turns to face me, leaning against the wall, completely unbothered by the violence I just threatened. His lips are parted. His chest heaves. The outline of his cock is giant against his pants.
"Tomorrow night," he says. "Your brothers finalize the mission briefing. The day after, we leave for Geneva. That gives us thirty-six hours to figure out what this is."
"There's nothing to figure out."
"There's everything to figure out. And we both know it." He pushes off the wall, walks toward me. I hold my ground even though every instinct screams retreat. "I'm not asking you to feel something you don't feel. I'm asking you to stop pretending you feel nothing."
"And if I can't?"
"Then we go to Geneva, we save those kids, and we never speak of this again." He stops in front of me. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss. "But if you can, if you can admit, even once, that you want me, then maybe we both stop running."
"You're insane."
"Oh, I absolutely fucking am." His hand comes up, hovers near my face, not quite touching. "But I'm also right. And you know it."
I grab his wrist. Hold it there, suspended between us.
We stand like that for a beat while the barn creaks around us. His pulse jumps under my fingers, and this time it's not as steady as before. This time, I can feel his control cracking.
Good. Let him crack. Let him break first. Then maybe I won't have to.
"Thirty-six hours," I say.
"Thirty-six hours."
"And then?"
"And then we see who comes first."
I release his wrist. Step around him. Walk out of the barn without looking back.
Behind me, I hear him exhale. A long, shaky breath that sounds almost like relief.
Thirty-six hours.
I can survive thirty-six hours.
I've survived worse.
But as I cross the yard toward the farmhouse, I realize my hands have stopped shaking. The noise in my head has gone quiet. And somewhere underneath all the fear and fury, I feel the first spark of anticipation.
I crush it before it can grow.
But it's there. And we both know it.