7. CHAPTER 7
CILLIAN
Jal-haess-eo-yo. The words looped. Again and again. Exactly like his mouth shaped them. The training hall had no windows. Just stone walls, bags on chains, and the metallic smell of old blood in the seams.
My fist clipped the bag late. Chain snapped. Sweat burned my eyes. Sloppy. Moon’s cold voice lived in my skull, fixing my pronunciation like I was another mess he could tidy and discard. I wanted it cracking open for me. Breaking.
Christ.
Look at me.
I slammed my fist into the bag again. The chain rattled hard. My knuckles split wider on the next hit. Heat stung beneath the wrap. Since Saint Lucia, it had been Moon. Every fucking second.
The way the words poured out of him until I finally had to tell him to come up for air. The way he’d stared at me for one suspended heartbeat before kissing me. Then he ran.
I stepped back from the bag, chest heaving, and flexed my hands. The fresh split on my knuckle opened wider. Blood welled up, bright against the black wrap. I should have found that annoying. I did. Mostly.
Between Saint Lucia and initiation I’d fucked guys. Eager hands, greedy holes that squeezed just right for thirty fucking seconds. Came hard. Rolled off bored and furious every time.
Still wasn’t him.
I wanted Moon under me, over me, didn’t fucking matter. The need clawed low and ugly. That pissed me off most. I never gave a single fuck about anyone. Then Moon happened.
There had to be an off switch somewhere. Maybe fucking him was enough to kill whatever this was. Then I could go back to normal. Whatever the fuck normal used to be.
Moon in Saint Lucia was different, drunk, guard down, smiling.
I miss that fucking smile. Here he looked at me like I was the worst thing that could touch him.
Should’ve ended there. Sawyer’s smug face flashed through my head, always standing too close to what wasn’t his.
Good. Finally. A useful target. I should’ve put his face on the bag instead.
The Thorn training hall usually helped. A good place to stop thinking. Usually.
I rolled my shoulder, sweat soaking the waistband of my boxing shorts, knuckles taped as I bounced lightly on the balls of my feet.
The word came back anyway.
Fuck.
Misha was in the ring with Declan, gloves up, grin wicked enough to count as a nerve gas.
Declan was bigger, heavier, the kind of thick muscle that looked built for breaking doors instead of people.
He swung. Misha slipped it and tapped him twice in the ribs.
Light. Humiliating. Declan cursed and reset his stance.
I hit the bag again. Late. The chain jerked.
“Fucking hell, Ashbourne,” Declan called, wiping sweat from his mouth. “That hook was ugly.”
I punched the bag again, harder. “Still prettier than your footwork.”
Misha grinned from the ring. “He’s right. You’re stomping.”
“Shut up, Lovchy.”
Declan shoved Misha’s shoulder with one glove, light enough to deny and hard enough to ask for trouble. Misha’s grin widened. Bad idea. Declan looked back at me. “The fuck is wrong with you lately? That Aster cunt still making the Blood Writ difficult? You look pathetic.”
I slammed another punch into the leather. “Keep talking.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Then come over here.”
He laughed. “What, and catch whatever has you punching like shit?”
Misha moved first. “Declan.”
Declan pointed a glove at him. “Don’t start.”
“Stop talking.”
“Why?” Declan’s eyes cut back to me, chest up, chin high, trying to make size look like courage. “What? You in love with the Aster prince now?”
A few heads turned. My hand flexed inside the wrap.
Misha stepped through the ropes. Declan shoved him back with one glove. “Relax, Lovchy. I’m just asking a question.”
“No,” Misha said. “You’re trying to keep your teeth.”
Declan laughed, eyes dragging over me. “No, seriously, lad. We fucking hand you Aster’s pretty little prince on a silver platter and you’re in here beating the shit out of bags like some whipped dog waiting for him to pat your head and call you good boy.
Even Kaelan’s laughing behind your back.
This pathetic romance is fucking embarrassing.
The prick doesn’t even want you, yet you’re drooling like a lovesick cunt over something you’ll never own.
Instead of dragging him somewhere private, bending him over, and reminding him who the fuck he belongs to, you send him flowers.
Flowers, Cillian. This isn’t some romance bullshit.
This is a blood writ. We’re here to break the Moon heir, not make the little bastard blush. ”
Instinct dragged my eyes to him.
“Say that again.”
Misha moved faster. “Cillian.”
Declan was too pleased with himself to hear the warning. “What? Did I hurt your feelings? Or does he do that part for you too?”
My vision narrowed. Declan saying his name, any fucking joke about him, made something ugly uncoil low in my gut. Moon was mine to push. Mine to crack open. Mine to break until the pretty lies spilled out. No one else.
I took one step forward. The bag forgotten.
Declan stepped off the mat and came closer, still running his mouth. “Careful, Ashbourne. Keep looking at him like that and people might think you’re waiting for him to put you on your knees.”
My fist was already moving.
The hook landed clean. Declan’s head snapped sideways. Blood sprayed across the mat. The entire hall went dead quiet.
I wanted him to say Moon’s name again just so I could hit him harder. I wanted to break something for even daring to speak about Moon like that.
Declan stumbled, caught the top rope, and came back up with blood on his teeth and murder in his eyes. Now he wanted the fight. Good. He swung wild and sloppy. I slipped under it, caught his arm, and drove my elbow into his ribs once, twice, hard enough to fold him halfway. Declan came up swinging.
Coach Macrae caught his wrist mid-throw. Tall, grey-haired, built like he’d spent forty years putting bigger men on the floor. One hand. No effort. “Enough.”
Declan jerked against Macrae’s grip, blood already swelling on his split lip. “He hit me first.”
Macrae looked at the mess on Declan’s mouth, then over at me. “Good hit.”
Declan’s face twisted. Macrae’s smile vanished. “Don’t look so offended. You ate it clean.”
The room went still.
Macrae shoved Declan back. “If you’re Thorn, learn to block before you learn to bitch.”
Misha coughed.
“Shit.”
Macrae’s head snapped toward him. Misha lifted both hands fast. “Sir, I had—”
“Don’t sir me, Lovchy. I know exactly who you are.”
Misha blinked once and actually shut his mouth. Miracle.
Macrae turned back to the rest of us, voice flat. “Five Favor docked.”
The room exploded.
“Bullshit.”
“Five?”
“Opening week?”
Macrae didn’t raise his voice. That was worse. “Five docked because you gave Aster, Dahlia, and Vesper a free look at Thorn discipline falling apart.”
Silence slammed down.
Macrae looked at me. “Next time, make it sanctioned.” Then at Declan. “And next time, keep your guard up before you run your mouth.”
Declan wiped blood from his lip and said nothing. First smart thing he’d done all afternoon.
Macrae turned toward the ring. “You want blood, get in the ring. You want points, win the academy rounds. You cost Thorn Favor with this training-room shit again, I’ll put you against someone who knows how to finish.”
Nobody spoke after Macrae left.
Declan spat blood into the towel bin. The rest of Thorn suddenly remembered how to behave.
Misha opened his mouth. I grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him toward the locker corridor before he could make it worse.
“Oi.” He stumbled after me, laughing. “Rude.”
I shoved him through the doorway and let it swing shut.
The locker room smelled like men, sweat, blood, and testosterone thick enough to taste. Someone had done a piss-poor job rinsing the floor.
Misha opened his mouth before the door even swung shut.
I cut him off. “Don’t.”
His grin froze.
I had put my fist in Declan’s face like a first-year idiot the second he said Moon’s name. No thought. No strategy. Just pure reaction. Five Favor already gone. Aleksei would hear about it before dinner. That was the fucking problem.
Misha leaned back against the lockers. “You’re mad at yourself.”
“I said don’t.” I ripped the tape off my knuckles until it tore into the split skin. Blood welled fresh. Pain was good. Because every time I thought about Moon correcting me, my cock twitched like the desperate fucking dog he’d made me.
He lifted both hands in mock surrender.
“He can’t be trusted,” I said.
“He’s Thorn.”
“This whole fucking Court is mafia sons, cartel heirs, fight dogs, and rich boys with knives. Since when do we trust each other?”
Misha considered that.
“I trust you.”
My attention settled on him.
He made a face. “Don’t look so touched. It’s embarrassing.”
“I’m not touched.”
“Good. Because I asked around.”
My jaw tightened.
“About what?”
“Your prince.”
“Misha.”
“What? You’re my best friend. I’m allowed to keep you from walking dick-first into a trap.”
“I’m your best friend?”
He punched my arm. “Shut up.”
I almost smiled.
“Moon studies in the east reading gallery most nights,” he said. “Seven-thirty to nine.”
My hand stilled on the tape around my knuckles.
“Alone?” I asked.
His grin came back.
“There he is.”
I looked at him.
“Okay,” I said. “Who else knows?”
“I haven’t told a soul.” Misha’s grin widened. “Not even my better half with the worse face.”
“Aleksei doesn’t know?”
“Lesha knows you have the Blood Writ. He does not know you’re about to lurk in the east reading gallery like a horny criminal.”
“I’m not lurking.”
“You are absolutely lurking.”
“For the Writ.”
“Obviously.”
“Not to fool around.”
Misha’s face went solemn. Insultingly solemn.
“Never crossed my mind.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“And you just threw five Favor down the drain because Declan mentioned Moon? You’re really letting him live in your head like that?”
Misha pushed off the lockers and clapped my shoulder hard enough to make it hurt.
“There. That’s me being supportive.”
“You call that supportive?”
“I didn’t tell Lesha. That’s practically a love letter from me.”
“Disgusting.”
“You’re welcome.”
“My point is, I’ve got your back,” he said. “Lesha will think you’re working the Writ. The reading gallery is quiet then. Nobody will interrupt you. Nobody knows unless you fuck it up.”
“Generous.”
Misha’s grin shifted, turning sharper.
“One thing.”
“What?”
“Aleksei pulled me aside. Asked about you.”
My hand froze on the tape.
“And Moon.”
The lockers clicked around us.
Misha watched me carefully. “He wants to know if you’re actually working the Blood Writ… or if you’re too compromised by the Aster prince.”
I watched him, every muscle gone still.
“What the fuck did you tell him?”
“That you’re disciplined. Loyal. Fully committed to Thorn’s interests.” Misha shrugged. “The usual lies.”
I yanked the tape tighter until it bit into my split knuckles.
“How much does he know?”
“Enough to be watching,” Misha said, leaning back against the lockers, arms crossed. “Not enough to pull you off it. Yet.” His eyes stayed flat. “But Lesha needs this Writ, Cil. Thorn needs to climb that fucking scoreboard. We need Aster bleeding out.”
“I know the fucking job.”
“Then stop looking like you want to fuck the target every time his name comes up.”
My jaw flexed hard.
Misha pointed at me. “There. That exact face. Don’t do that shit when anyone says his name.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are. Moon looks like he wants you dead in public, so we’re safe for now. But if Aleksei starts thinking you’re compromised instead of just obsessed…” Misha’s grin thinned. “He’ll pull the Writ. And you know what happens after that.”
The thought of Aleksei pulling the Writ, cutting off my excuse to corner Moon, provoke him, watch that perfect control slip whenever I got too close, locked my lungs tight.
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
If the Writ disappeared, so did every public reason I had to keep touching him. I wasn’t finished with him.
“So,” Misha said. “Gallery stays quiet. You keep your head. I keep Aleksei off your back.”
The reading gallery. Seven-thirty. Alone.
I threw the tape in the bin.
“Don’t make this messy,” I said.
Misha laughed. “You just punched Declan in the mouth for saying his name.”
“Messier.”
I was already picturing it.
Moon alone in the gallery, hunched over some mind-numbingly boring Patronage Seat documents, that intense little frown he got when he overthought. Green tea gone lukewarm. Hair pushed back for the third time on the same paragraph.
Fuck, I couldn’t wait to ruin his concentration.
The second I stepped inside, his spine would lock.
He’d try to look unaffected. I’d catch the fingers tightening on the page, the hitch in his breathing.
Every reaction another piece of proof the perfect Aster candidate was already compromised.
He could bury himself in dry politics all he wanted.
I was still going to savor every second of watching him fight not to react while the whole Court kept score.
“Copy that, brother.”
“One more thing,” I said.
Misha looked up from his bag. “Yeah?”
“What do you know about Sawyer Whitlock?”
The grin died on his face. Just enough. That told me everything before he even opened his mouth.
“He didn’t touch the Writ himself,” Misha said quietly. “Paid some lower-level shit to ask around, then stood back far enough to keep his hands clean. Classic move.”
I kept packing my gloves and boxing gear into the bag. “Family?”
Misha dragged a towel across the back of his neck. “Old money. My father respects the Whitlocks, which means he either owes them, fears them, or wants them dead quietly. They make dirty work look like charity galas and patronage boards. Shell companies. Private security. Clean on paper.”
“And Sawyer?”
Misha’s mouth twisted. “He performs harmless too well. Catholic boy with the perfect smile. But I’ve heard things. Private islands. Family hunts. People who disappear after parties no one ever admits happened.”
He stopped smiling completely. That did more than the words.
“Mafia has rules,” Misha said quietly. “Bad ones, but rules. The Whitlocks don’t belong to anything with rules.”
I thought of Sawyer stepping between me and Moon like he had any fucking right to him. I zipped my bag closed hard.
“Find out what he really wants,” I said. “The Seat. Moon. Or both.”
Misha nodded once.
“On it.”
Misha clapped my shoulder and left, already yelling at Declan about another round before the locker room door swung shut.
Jesus. That man had no survival instinct.
Sawyer Whitlock was dirtier than he looked. Good to know. Moon studied alone in the east reading gallery from seven-thirty to nine. Better to know.
I stripped, already planning the shower.
Had to smell clean for my preppy boy. Sawyer could wait.
Gallery first. Moon couldn’t. Every time he looked away, jaw locked, body still saying yes anyway.
Another yes. Another fucking yes. He thought he was resisting.
He was only teaching me exactly where to put my hands.