Chapter 31 #2
Long. Unsteady. Carrying the last remnants of the adrenaline that has been fueling my assault on the heavy bag, the exhale deflating my shoulders and loosening the tension in my jaw that I did not realize I had been holding.
"Are you not turned off by that?" I ask, gesturing vaguely at myself, at the training room, at the general concept of an Omega drenched in sweat and rage beating the hell out of an inanimate object at ten o'clock at night.
"The whole angry, violent, paper-throwing spectacle I just performed for a live audience? "
He chuckles.
The sound is low and warm and carrying an amusement that should not be as attractive as it is, given that I look like a drowned cat who got into a fight with a punching bag and lost.
"You should not ask what turns me on," he says, his gray eyes holding mine with a directness that makes my stomach drop six inches, "unless you want me to pin you to these mats and kiss you senseless.
Because watching an Omega box, dripping in sweat, with that look in her eyes?
That is the best form of entertainment I could ask for.
And I am using the word entertainment very loosely. "
I laugh.
The sound erupts before I can contain it, startled out of me by the sheer, unfiltered audacity of the statement.
My hand flies to my mouth, muffling the snickers that keep escaping through my fingers because every time I think I have controlled the laugh, the memory of what he just said triggers a fresh wave.
"That," I manage between my fingers, "is the most blunt pickup line I have ever heard in my entire life. And I have heard some truly terrible ones. This is in its own category. It needs its own wing in the museum of shameless flirtation."
He winks.
"My brother may be a playboy, but I am the one who is more dangerous in the wing of fuckery. Rafe flirts with volume. I flirt with precision. Very different skill sets. Very different results."
I laugh again, louder this time, removing my hand from my mouth because the attempt to muffle it has failed completely.
The sound fills the training room with an echo that bounces off the rubber mats and the mirrored wall and the heavy bag still swaying gently on its chain, and for the first time since I stormed out of that locker room, the knot in my chest loosens.
"I do appreciate how blunt you are," I admit, peeling the gloves off and dropping them on the mat beside me.
"It is refreshing. I am not used to it, because bluntness from Alphas usually comes packaged with arrogance, and you manage to deliver it without the cocky aftertaste. It is a rare combination."
"It is how you execute your words versus your projection of emotion," he says, tilting his head with the quiet confidence of a man offering a philosophy rather than a pickup strategy.
"Arrogance projects insecurity outward and calls it dominance.
Bluntness is just honesty that skipped the scenic route.
One requires an audience. The other requires only the person you are speaking to. "
He walks toward the equipment rack along the wall, selecting a pair of spare gloves from the shelf. He examines them briefly, flexes his fingers inside, and begins wrapping his hands with a practiced efficiency that tells me this is not his first time in front of a heavy bag.
"Fix your posture," he says, nodding toward the bag. "And start some reps with me. Your guard has been dropping for at least the last fifteen minutes based on how exhausted your shoulders look, and if you are going to punch things, you are going to punch them correctly."
I arch an eyebrow.
"You kickbox?"
"Do you want the full Raphael lore?" He turns to face me, one glove raised, his gray eyes carrying the particular gleam of a man who is about to tell a story he enjoys telling.
"The story of how I got my ass kicked in the corner streets of Paris and made a personal vow to never get fucked up like that again? "
I gawk at him.
My eyes travel from his face to his shoulders to his arms to his full, imposing, six-foot-three frame that looks like it was assembled in a laboratory dedicated to producing physically flawless human specimens, and I try to reconcile the image of this man getting beaten up by anyone, anywhere, under any circumstances.
"You?" I point at him. "You looked like this and someone still whooped your ass?"
He smirks.
"I looked exactly like this. Still got demolished. Turns out, being tall and attractive does not automatically grant you combat skills. A lesson I learned face-first on a Parisian sidewalk at two in the morning."
I laugh so hard my ribs ache.
"What happened?"
He shrugs with the casual ease of a man who has made peace with his past humiliations and wears them as credentials rather than scars.
"I got drunk. I was twenty. Being a cocky, rude fucker at a bar in the eleventh arrondissement, running my mouth to a group of locals who did not appreciate my attitude or my accent.
I was from the south, they were Parisians, and alcohol eliminated the filter that would have normally told me to shut up and drink my beer.
Words were exchanged. Insults escalated.
I made the critical error of assuming that being an Alpha athlete meant I could handle myself in a street fight, which is the kind of arrogance that gets corrected very quickly by men who grew up fighting in alleys instead of skating on ice. "
He mimes the aftermath with his gloved hand.
"Got my ass handed to me. Thoroughly. Woke up to the police shaking me on the pavement, thinking I was some homeless drunk who passed out in the gutter.
My face was a mess. My ribs were cracked.
My ego was in critical condition. I spent three solid days and nights in pain that made hockey injuries feel like paper cuts, lying in my apartment staring at the ceiling and reconsidering every life choice that led me to that sidewalk. "
"Three business days," I repeat, grinning.
"Three business days of agony and introspection.
And on day four, I dragged myself to the best MMA and boxing studio in Paris and signed up for a full training program.
Nine months later, I was a medal champion in an amateur competition.
Clean fights. Proper technique. The discipline I should have learned before I opened my mouth in that bar. "
He pauses, and the smirk deepens.
"And then I ran into those same men again. Same bar. Same corner of the eleventh arrondissement. Except this time I was sober, trained, and carrying nine months of combat experience that they did not know about. We stepped out back. I handled the situation with proficiency."
I whistle, low and appreciative, my gloves pausing mid-rep against the bag.
"Well, I should scold you for violence," I say, tilting my head with a mock seriousness that I cannot maintain for more than two seconds. "But I commend you for delivering karma with such theatrical timing. The nine-month revenge arc is cinematic. Netflix would option that."
He laughs, full and resonant, the sound filling the training room with a warmth that his composed exterior rarely reveals.
"It was well deserved. And I was completely sober for the rematch, so I feel I deserve extra praise for executing revenge with a clear mind and functioning motor skills."
I giggle, dropping my guard to press my gloved hand against my sternum, the laughter loosening muscles I did not know were still clenched.
"Okay, Sir Lancelot of the Paris Streets," I say, dipping into a mock curtsy that is absurd given that I am drenched in sweat and wearing borrowed boxing gloves. "I knight thee champion of alleyway justice and terrible bar decisions."
His grin widens.
I laugh again, pausing to catch my breath, my hands braced on my knees while the last tremors of amusement work their way through my ribs.
The anger that drove me into this room, the incandescent fury that powered thirty minutes of unsupervised bag work, has retreated to a low hum.
Still present. Still warm beneath my sternum.
But no longer consuming. No longer the only frequency my body can receive.
"Do you feel a bit better?" Raphael asks. The question is gentle. Genuinely curious. Not the performative concern of a man asking because he thinks he should, but the attentive inquiry of someone who tracked me to an empty training room because he could not rest until he confirmed I was whole.
"Yes, actually." I straighten up, wiping my forehead with my wrist. "And I am surprised you are funny. Nobody warned me about that. The intimidating European coach thing led me to expect brooding silence and stoic one-word answers, not Parisian street fight origin stories."
His smile spreads further, but a softer quality enters his gray eyes, a vulnerability that he allows to surface with the careful deliberation of a man who does not display softness often and chooses his moments with intention.
"Most people do not know what to expect from me," he admits quietly.
"Rafe has a bad reputation here, and the association follows me whether I endorse it or not.
People see the last name and assume they know the personality.
Very different from when I am in Paris or Italy or Germany, where my friends know the real version.
The one who tells terrible jokes and gets into bar fights and coaches with too much intensity and cares about people in ways he is not always equipped to express. "
He shrugs.
"But I have to be cautious here because the judgment is constant. Every interaction is filtered through the lens of who my brother is and what he has done, and the effort of proving I am not him is exhausting in a way that I did not anticipate when I agreed to this consulting trip."