Chapter Seventeen
Chiara
I hit the punching bag in a steady rhythm, alternating between jabs and hooks, each punch heightening my frustration instead of easing it.
I finished my Friday class and still felt restless, so I stayed to throw a few punches at the leather bag.
My breath comes out in hard pants, my knuckles sting through the leather of the gloves, and sweat is dripping down my temples, but I can’t stop.
It’s easier fighting that bag than processing the mess in my head, than thinking about him.
I imagine his face on the bag and hit harder, my body trembling from the impact.
For more than a week, I have been a knot of pent-up rage, and all because of this man.
I want to punch his perfect face, make him suffer, hurt him like he hurt me.
I don’t recognize myself anymore and it makes me even angrier.
A deep voice cuts through the steady thud of my fists. “Careful, cara mia. Keep hitting like this and you’ll hurt your wrist.”
I freeze mid-swing and my heart stops. I turn my head even though I already know who I will see standing there.
Lucas leans casually against the doorframe, clad in dark jeans and a black T-shirt, the sleeves clinging to his biceps like a second skin.
I have never seen him in jeans and a T-shirt before, and the sight is…
unsettling. His broad chest and shoulders look even wider under the clingy material, giving him a threatening air.
The short sleeves hide nothing of his unfairly ripped arms where muscle and sinew shift under his bronze skin. He looks annoyingly handsome.
I gulp, feeling suddenly flustered. I lift my gaze to his, and find his eyes locked on me, burning like blue flames, tracking every rise and fall of my chest. I swallow again and straighten, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my arm.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.
He pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, unhurried and predatory. “Visiting, nothing more.”
I narrow my eyes on him. Does he want another beating?
Because I would be happy to oblige. He doesn’t seem concerned, though, as he steps closer and closer until he is standing only an inch away.
If I breathe too hard, my chest will brush against him.
God he is tall. I have to tilt my head back to look into his face.
Everything in me screams to take a step back, but I’d rather die than cower. I stand my ground and glare up at him.
“Go back to Boston and leave me alone,” I grit out eventually. “I’m not going back, so you can tell Father or whoever sent you they can forget my very existence.”
He looks down at me with arrogance. “No one sent me, I came on my own.” His voice is calm and it’s grating on my nerves. “As for going back…” His gaze darkens. “It’s either you go back with me, or I’ll stay right here with you.”
I let out an incredulous scoff. “I won’t go back with you.”
A slow, wolfish grin plays on his lips. “Then I’m staying right here.”
“Suit yourself and go on wasting your time,” I snap.
His low chuckle sets my teeth on edge. “I don’t think so. On the contrary, I’m thoroughly entertained, cara mia.” The last word is a low rumble, laced with possessiveness.
My patience snaps. I’ll give you entertainment.
Before I can think better of it, I lunge at him, throwing a punch aimed at his jaw.
He sidesteps easily, catching my wrist mid-swing.
I pivot, breaking free with the move just as I was taught, slamming my other gloved fist toward his ribs.
For a flicker of a second, I think I’ve got him, but he dodges easily.
Then his arm circles around my waist while his other hand grabs my wrist and yanks me forward, dragging me flush against him.
“Nice try.” He breathes against my ear with a low chuckle.
I snarl, bringing my knee up hard, but he anticipates, shifting his weight so fast my balance is ripped out from under me. In one fluid motion, I’m spun and trapped with my back against his chest, his forearm banded across my torso, pinning both my arms in place.
I thrash and twist, trying to drop my weight and disengage like I was taught, but his hold is unshakable. Every movement only presses me tighter against him.
“Let. Me. Go!” I spit, breathless.
He chuckles again like this is a stroll in the park and drops a kiss to my temple.
I see red. I thrash harder, but he only tightens his hold until I am left breathing hard, my back plastered against his front.
“Never…” comes his low rasp against my ear. “I’ll never let you go. You’d better get used to the idea.”
“You’re insane,” I cry.
Suddenly, he hooks my legs and jerks me off balance.
He grabs my shoulder with one hand, twisting my body and slamming me backward into the mat.
The impact steals my breath. The next second, he is pinning me to the ground with his weight between my thighs, his hands grabbing my wrists to hold my gloved hands over my head.
I blink up at him, stunned. I’ve seen this move before. “Brazilian Jiu-jitsu,” I whisper.
His lips curl up. “You didn’t expect that, did you?” he murmurs smugly. “Just like I got caught by surprise the other day.”
I twist under him, testing his grip, but he doesn’t budge. My wrists might as well be chained to the mat. My pulse hammers so violently I hear the blood whooshing in my ears.
“Let go,” I snap.
Instead of listening, he dips lower, dragging his nose along my jaw and inhaling deeply, as if he were breathing me in. My skin prickles with heat and dread in equal measure.
Then he grabs my jaw to tilt my head back, dragging his tongue slowly over the column of my throat. I let out a strangled sound.
“Mine,” he growls against my skin, the word vibrating through me like a purr.
He shudders. “You have no idea what it’s been like without you,” he rasps against my throat, his lips brushing the pulse point and making me quake.
“Six months of hell. Six months of chasing your ghost. And now”— his grip tightens, his voice rough—“I’m not letting you slip away again. ”
I can barely catch my breath, my chest is heaving and my limbs are trembling beneath him. He leans back and looks down at me, his eyes boring into mine, blazing and unyielding.
Then, suddenly, he releases me. His weight lifts, and I blink up at him, startled by the sudden emptiness. He straightens, and for a second he looks almost normal, if it weren’t for the dark look in his eyes.
“Get used to me, because I’m not leaving,” he mutters, voice low but edged with determination. Without another word he strides toward the door. I am still sprawled on the mat, too stunned to move. After a few beats, I sit up slowly, my body trembling and mind reeling.
What just happened? What does he mean, he’s not leaving?