Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Manny tapped her shoulder as she was re-tying her belt. “Boss wants to see you.”
Her fingers slipped on the knot. “Rafael?”
“In the back.”
She smoothed it once, stalling, before falling in behind him. Past the change rooms and the office, to a steel door she’d assumed was the fire escape.
Her stomach turned over in a way that was equal parts intrigue and unease. He’d kept his distance since their confrontation. Not absence exactly, more like space she knew he could walk into at any moment. Now he was summoning her to him.
Manny opened the door and, with a knowing grin, left her there. The door shut behind her with an ominous thud.
The room was bigger than she’d imagined, mats laid wall-to-wall, mirrored, a handful of enormous boxing bags hanging on one side.
And him. The black gi was in sharp contrast to her white one, brutal in its simplicity, fabric giving way to the sweep of muscle. Her gaze snagged on the black belt slung at his hips, a quiet promise of what he could do. He looked devastating like this.
“Didn’t know there was a room back here,” she said, thankful her voice sounded even.
“You still mad?” Rafael’s eyes swept over her, catching here and there like he was taking stock.
Her arms crossed. “If I was, dragging me into your private fight club wouldn’t fix it.”
He adjusted his cuff with two quick pulls, then rolled his shoulders back, loosening them. “You’re working toward the blue belt.”
Bea nodded. She was freakishly aware of how the fabric shifted over his chest.
“Your base is too easy to break.”
He flexed his hands, then shook them out once, the veins standing as he curled his fists. She realized then that his body never seemed to fully relax, not even in stillness. He carried readiness the way others carried posture.
The gi didn’t just suit him; it explained him in a way no other piece of clothing ever had. Always braced, always coiled, born for the fight.
“I’m working on it,” she said.
“I’m giving you a private lesson.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“Bea.” Just her name, but it sounded like a command. “On the mat.”
Could someone please tell her amygdala that he meant sparring?
She moved without meaning to, body obeying while her mind tumbled after, half scandalized, half eager. Some impetuous part of her wanted to see what he would do with her once she was there.
They faced each other across the mat, knees brushing the edge of the tape line. For a beat, neither moved.
And then she lunged, feinting left.
He didn’t just react—he was already there. As though he’d read the thought before it became action. A grip that felt inevitable. He caught her wrist, turned, and in a blink she was on her back, pinned like a stray sock under the dryer.
His weight came with him, pressing down through his chest, his thigh, his arm. Heavy without being crushing, every route out sealed. She could smell the salt of his skin, the clean snap of soap.
“You think about the wrong things when it gets close,” he murmured.
Her mind should have been tracking his balance, calculating angles, rehearsing counters.
Instead she was excruciatingly aware of the way his body had settled over hers.
He was angled just enough that she could pretend it was only training…
if she ignored the reality of what was presently dragging along her hip.
Her breath caught, body tightening in recognition. The knowledge of what that part of him was for. An alarming and precise chain of responses, some parts of her softening, others tightening, happened in the blink of an eye.
“What should I be thinking about?” she rasped, trying to regain her equilibrium.
“Where my weight is. Where your hands are. What you’re willing to do to win.”
For the space of three heartbeats, the words lingered: What you’re willing to do to win.
Anything, apparently. Even something reckless.
She leaned up, lips brushing his ear, and whispered, “You’re not as heavy as I thought you’d be.”
It was on the outer margins of prudence; she had the brief thought that she wouldn’t have risked teasing Gage that way. But with Rafael, foolish words crowded her tongue like they wanted to leap free.
The distraction cost him a single millisecond, and she took it—hooking her ankle around his calf and driving them sideways.
It wasn’t a clean move. Her elbow nearly clipped his jaw, and he stopped it an inch short with his palm. But she managed to get on top, her knee pressing into his hip, her palms flattening on the furnace that was his chest.
“How was that?” she asked, breathless.
It wasn’t even a win, not really, but triumph surged through her like she’d just toppled Goliath. Which was probably the dumbest reaction to have while straddling Rafael Griffin. His green eyes weren’t defeated; if anything, they’d come alive.
“Better. But you just gave me your body. Do you know what that means?”
He moved, not fast, with the kind of control that made speed irrelevant, and rolled them. Her back met the mat again.
Worse this time. Much worse.
Now he was centered, hips flush on hers, every contour finding its match. Belatedly she deduced that in that first pin he’d angled off on purpose. This time he hadn’t left room for denial or sanity.
Rafael was gazing down at her like a man who had pictured this before, in vivid detail.
His breath feathered against her cheek, the heat of it making her acutely aware of just how close his mouth was.
She felt the growing hardness of him shift against her, proof that he wasn’t immune to the position he’d put them in.
Blood roared in her ears. Her focus scattered like coins dropped on tile. The air between them was thick enough to taste. Her legs tightened of their own accord—and his eyes told her he’d felt her hold him closer.
Bea had made a terrible, terrible mistake in doing BJJ.
“Let me up, Rafael.” Her voice was almost steady. Almost. The rest of her was busy panicking and trying not to hyperventilate.
He didn’t move. Not yet. His eyes held her pinned as much as his body did, weighing whether to release her or keep her exactly where she was.
Finally, he pushed off, and rose to his feet, tugging his gi into order with a composure that made her want to scream. She scrambled upright too quickly, as if distance alone could steady her.
“If you want to spar again before your test…you know where to find me.” He said it like a man invites you to your ruin. His gaze dipped to her mouth, lingering long enough that she forgot to swallow.
Letting Rafael train her was about as wise as stepping into a cage with a panther that liked to play with its food.
“What would it cost me?” she asked, and instantly wanted to kick herself.
A slow smile. “I’d do it out of the goodness of my heart, little Bea.”
Her palms were damp where she was clutching the fabric of her pants. “I’ll think about it.”
His eyes sharpened with humor. “I’m sure you will.”
And he was, unfortunately, entirely correct.
Days later, she was still catching herself replaying the mats. In class, over coffee, even now as she waited in Jaxon’s car in black silk and heels. Rafael lingered in her head, whether she wanted him there or not.
The cars were bottlenecked at the foot of the opera house, headlights glancing off marble steps. Security stood in quiet formation, black-suited and watchful. Flashbulbs stuttered like lightning as reporters shouted names.
Isabel went first, the embodiment of spectacle, silver silk catching every camera flash.
Her date—austerely handsome, moviestaresque—offered his arm.
Isabel knew her best angles. Behind her, Naomi and Charles emerged to another volley of flashes, the perfect political couple lifting their hands to wave.
Georgina and Hunter came next, her gold gown blazing under the lights.
Bea waited just inside the car door beside Jaxon, stomach a knot. She hated being seen, speculated on, captured in a frame she couldn’t control. Isabel had anticipated that, and prearranged a plan.
“Mrs. Prescott’s wearing the family emeralds tonight.”
That was the cue. They moved quickly.
Jaxon’s hand was light at her back. He walked press-side. Behind them, Adam steered Lillian. By the time they climbed the first set of steps, a second perfectly timed comment from Isabel—“Is that Noelle?”—sent the cameras swiveling away once more in search of a brighter star.
Inside, Lillian pressed a glass of champagne into her hand. “Isabel’s got a general’s instincts for diversion.”
“I owe her one,” Bea said, fanning herself with her clutch.
Jaxon leaned in. “You’d have been fine. You clean up too well to hide forever.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking the compliment. “You’re looking dapper yourself.”
“Didn’t want to embarrass you.”
The spectacle widened: staircases of marble veined in gold, curving beneath chandeliers and balconies tiered with velvet curtains.
Servers wove through the crush carrying trays stacked high with Dom Pérignon, oysters, glitter-dusted macarons.
It was obscene, intoxicating—a carnival dressed in couture.
Bea shook her head, speaking almost to herself. “Two years ago I would’ve been floored by this level of wealth. Now it’s…normal. It’s crazy what you get used to.”
In a room like this, she wasn’t the least bit important. Her name meant little. But enough people remembered who she’d been with a year ago, and in this moment, his name was what mattered.
Mouths tipped close, whispers slipping like knives beneath the cover of champagne laughter.
Fragments reached her in flashes:
Gage King’s ex is here.
Jaxon’s the palate cleanser?
Her spine prickled. It was one thing to know people whispered; it was another to feel the words brushing her skin like stray hands.
She’d never talked about Gage to Jaxon, had barely said his name, but of course he knew. Their breakup had been its own kind of public property. She would always be branded by the ghost of him.