Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Emilia
The factory smell of rust and burnt metal isn’t as staggering compared to the first time Zac brought me here. Early morning light filters through the cracks between the boarded windows, smattering the concrete floor with dots and blurs of gold.
Zac strides ahead of me, kicking his boots off before stepping onto the mat and rolling his black sleeves up to his elbows. His muscles catch the light, and for a moment, I almost forget to breathe.
“Come on, Emilia,” he says. “I don’t have all day.”
I reach the edge of the mat and shoot him a glare. “You actually do.”
He smirks. “Not a morning person?”
“Not when this is our only day off,” I retort. It’s seven in the goddamn morning.
He just gestures towards the empty grey mat. “To make up for it, I’ll teach you how to escape. How to not die when someone grabs you.”
“Encouraging,” I mutter, tugging my boots off.
“I’m not here to encourage you.”
“I still don’t understand why you are here,” I counter, stepping onto the mat in leggings and a plain white top. My hair is scraped back into a ponytail.
“Just to prove how useless you are,” he retorts, although this time, his tone seems lighter.
“Touching,” I say flatly. “I think you’ll find yourself sorely mistaken.”
“That’s the spirit.”
He moves first, stepping into my space before I can react. His hand catches my wrist, firm enough to make me flinch. “First lesson today,” he says, eyes locking on mine. “Don’t freeze.”
“I didn’t freeze.”
“You did.” His mouth twitches at the corners. “And you’re easy to read.”
I yank my wrist, trying to pull it free, but he doesn’t let up. His thumb brushes against my pulse.
“Stop fighting strength with strength,” he mutters. “Most of the time, you won’t win that way. Here—”
Still gripping my wrist, he steps closer. His free hand settles on my forearm, adjusting the angle of it, the heat of his skin warming mine.
“Rotate your wrist towards the thumb,” he says, voice low and rough.
The words sink in slower than they should, caught on the heat emanating from his body being so close to mine, on the deep timbre of his voice. The way that faint southern accent threads through it every now and again. My pulse stumbles, clumsy and stupid.
“It’ll hurt,” he adds. “But that’s where the grip’s weakest.”
His thumb nudges the side of my hand to show me what he means. Nodding, and ignoring the way my cheeks heat, I take a deep breath and twist.
His hold slips free. Just like that.
“Better,” he murmurs. I glance up, catching a faint flicker of surprise in his eyes.
“I’ll take you down in no time,” I say.
“Whatever you want to tell yourself, Emilia.”
We go again, and he tightens his hold. The following time, he grabs me in a different way. Then he tries using both hands.
By the time he moves around to grab me from behind, I’m breathless. Sweat drips down my neck, muscles trembling from the effort.
“Alright,” he murmurs, voice so low that I feel it more than hear it. “Escape me.”
Before I can brace myself, his arm locks around my waist, yanking me into his chest. An ‘ooof’ slips out of me as his other hand catches my wrist, pinning it to my side.
“Escape me, Emilia,” he challenges, his breath hot against my ear.
My mind blanks. Every inch of me goes taut, hyperaware of the heat of his chest pressed against my back, of his heartbeat thudding against my spine. His fingers tighten, the smallest amount, but it’s enough to drag my focus to every inch of his skin that meets mine.
I swallow hard. “You didn’t… show me how…”
His voice is a low hum. “Guess you’ll have to improvise.”
Something inside me sparks—a stubborn defiance that bubbles to the surface. I slam my head back, aiming for his nose. It connects, and Zac curses, grip faltering. I spin out of his hold, pivoting on instinct. My elbow catches his ribs, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him grunt.
He recovers fast. Too fast. Before I can gloat, his arm snakes around my waist and in one swift motion, I’m off my feet, hitting the mat with a thud that knocks all the air from my lungs.
He looms over me, hands braced on either side of my shoulders, breathing hard. A bead of sweat slides down his temple. His eyes blaze, but it isn’t with his usual anger.
“You played dirty,” he says, voice rough but amused.
I smirk, chest heaving. “So did you. I did what I needed to survive.” For a second, he just stares at me, and the air thickens, crackling with something unspoken.
“And yet, you’re beneath me. Dead,” he says, voice lower than ever.
I swallow. He’s still close—so close—the solid heat of his arm pressing against me, his weight pinning me in place. I can feel every hard plane of muscle through his T-Shirt.
Our eyes catch. The brown of his irises looks lighter than usual, tiny flecks of mesmerising amber catching in the light. My pulse stutters.
The silence stretches, and between us, something draws taut, charged and fierce.
His stare is steady and intense enough that heat prickles beneath my skin.
Then, without meaning to, my gaze drifts down to his mouth, the redness of his parted lips.
For half a heartbeat, I wonder what it would feel like—
He jerks back like he’s been burnt, pushing off the mat and turning away. I blink, forcing air back into my lungs, my heart hammering as I shove myself up onto my elbows.
When he turns back, he’s holding a bottle of water in each hand. He tosses one towards me without warning, and I scramble, just managing to catch it before it smacks me in the chest.
“Drink,” he says gruffly.
For the next hour, we move through various stances, punches, and blocks. Every time I stumble, he tries to catch me. Every time I fall before he can get there, he offers me a hand. Every time I repeat a mistake, he glares at me.
My muscles burn and sweat drips down my back. I keep my focus on the actions, but I can’t ignore the way my chest hammers every time our arms brush, or the goosebumps that scatter across my body when he murmurs instructions in my ear.
Utterly spent, and losing the will to live, I zone out of his fifteenth lecture as he paces the length of the mat.
With nothing left to lose, and common sense drained out of me, I launch myself at him, aiming to catch him off guard.
The second I’m within reach, his hands close around my wrist and arm.
With a swift, controlled motion, he twists my arm behind my back, his foot hooking in front of my right one.
If he wasn’t holding me, I’d face-plant the mat. I groan, utterly frustrated.
“You’re reckless,” he snaps. “That’ll get you killed.”
I shrug and force a smirk. “I like to keep things interesting.”
He huffs, the sound almost a laugh as he steps back, releasing me. “You’re a pain in my ass.”
“I’m tired,” I mutter, collapsing onto the ground. I stretch out flat on my back, staring at the ceiling above. “I’m done.”
“You’ll be done when I say you’re done—”
“I’m done,” I snap, cutting him off and shooting him the most hateful glare I can manage.
He watches me for a moment, jaw twitching. “Whatever. It’s your funeral.”
I let out a dry laugh. “I’m not important enough for them to honour me with a funeral.”
“They can go fuck themselves,” he mutters.
“I’ve been saying that for years.”
He leans back against the wall, silent as he lifts his water to his lips, taking a sip.
“Do you ever think about it?” I ask softly. “Escaping from the State? From here? Finding your way back south… back home?”
His jaw tightens. He stares down at the bottle, and then slowly crushes it.
“My home would have been decimated,” he says at last, his voice rough. “There’s nothing down there for me.”
“You don’t know that for sure—”
His hard gaze flicks to mine, sharp and unreadable. “How’s your home? Still standing?” The words hit harder than they should. My throat tightens. I stare at the ceiling again, blinking back the sting in my eyes. “Didn’t think so,” he mutters.
“You don’t have to be such a dick.”
“I’m not…” He exhales, his shoulders dropping. “I’m sorry. I just… don’t see the point.”
“It’s where you’re from,’ I say. “Where you were raised. Where you became you.”
He lets out a bitter laugh. “I don’t think there’s much of that boy left.”
I push myself upright, brushing my hair away from my damp forehead. “Come on,” I say. “I… want to show you something.”
He frowns, but gives me a barely visible nod.
We grab our shoes and leave the factory, the mid-afternoon sun blinding after the dim, dusty interior.
Zac follows silently, shoulders taut. We head in the direction of Market Square, before I divert down a smaller, unrepaired street.
I hop over the twisted metal and scattered rubble, boots tapping against broken concrete, heels catching every now and again.
Zac’s voice cuts through the sound of my heels clattering against the ground. “You’re an absolute joke in those boots.”
I glance back and scowl at him. “These boots are not news to you. Get over it, Hastings, or steal me a goddamn pair of sensible boots like yours,” I say, though my ankle twists slightly as I shift over a heap of bricks.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse as he falls into step beside me. Every time I stumble, even slightly, his hand lifts, as if to catch me.
And even though it shouldn’t, a small smile graces my lips each time.