Chapter 5
Leo
The basement of Blackwood Manor smelled like iron, stale sweat, and violence.
It was the only room in the house where the drywall had been reinforced with steel plating and the punching bags were filled with sand instead of foam, because regular heavy bags tended to explode when a wolf shifter having a bad day decided to hit them.
I was having a bad day.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I drove my right hook into the heavy bag, feeling the shockwave rattle up my arm, settling into the familiar ache in my shoulder. I danced back, reset, and threw a jab-cross combo.
"You're dropping your left hand," I grunted, not looking away from the bag.
"I'm not dropping it," a breathless voice argued from behind me. "My arms are just jelly. I think they’ve stopped receiving signals from my brain."
I stopped the bag with a gloved hand and turned around.
Maya was standing in the center of the mat, wearing a pair of my grey sweatpants that were rolled at the waist three times and a black tank top that hung loose on her frame.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands escaping to stick to the sweat on her forehead.
Her face was flushed pink, her chest heaving.
She looked ridiculous. She looked exhausted.
She looked fucking delicious.
"You are dropping it," I said, walking over to her. I stripped off my bag gloves, tossing them onto the bench. "Every time you throw the jab, your left hand drifts down to your waist. If I were an opponent, I’d have knocked you out three times in the last minute."
"Good thing I’m a cellist, not a prizefighter," she panted, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "I don't usually have to dodge right hooks during a concerto."
"The recital is a fight," I countered. I circled her, playing the role of the predator.
"The audience is the opponent. The critics are the enemy. If you go out there stiff, if you go out there protecting yourself, they’ll smell the fear.
You have to attack the music, Maya. You have to bleed on them before they can bleed on you. "
She glared at me. "That is a very violent metaphor for Mozart."
"Mozart was a freak," I said. "He would have understood."
It had been twenty-four hours since I made the deal in the bell tower.
Since then, Maya had been living in my shadow.
She slept in the guest room down the hall (locked, for her safety, though the Wolf paced outside her door until 3:00 AM).
She ate what I told her to eat. She skipped her classes because I told her she needed a mental health day.
And now, I was trying to break her.
Not her spirit—I liked her spirit. It had teeth. I was trying to break the shell, the porcelain armor she had built around herself to survive her parents.
"Again," I commanded. "Stance."
She groaned, a low sound in her throat, but she obeyed. She raised her fists, her knuckles wrapped in white tape. She settled into the stance I’d taught her—feet wide, knees bent.
"Hit my hands," I said, raising my palms. "One-two. Hard."
She threw the punches. Pop. Pop.
They were weak. Tentative. She was holding back, terrified of hurting me, terrified of doing it wrong.
"Harder," I barked. "Stop thinking about the form. Stop thinking about how you look. Just hit me."
"I can't," she said, dropping her hands. "It feels... wrong. I'm not aggressive, Leo."
"Everyone is aggressive," I said, stepping into her space. I invaded her zone, letting my scent—heated by the workout—wash over her. "It's biology. Fight or flight. You've spent your whole life choosing flight. Choose fight."
I reached out and tapped her cheek lightly, mockingly. "Come on, Good Girl. Show me you have a pulse."
Her eyes narrowed. The "Good Girl" taunt worked every time. It triggered a confusing mix of shame and defiance in her scent—sour lemons and spicy pepper.
She swung.
It was sloppy, a wild haymaker, but it had weight behind it. I caught it easily in my palm, absorbing the impact.
"Better," I praised. "Again."
She swung again. And again. I kept taunting her, kept pushing her, until her breathing turned into jagged gasps and her scent turned sharp. She was getting angry. Good. Anger was a gateway drug to passion.
"You think you're so smart," she panted, throwing a left hook that actually stung my palm. "You think you can just fix me by making me sweat."
"I think you live in your head," I said calmly, catching another punch. "And I think your head is a bad neighborhood. I'm trying to move you into your body."
She stopped, her chest heaving, her hands dropping to her sides. She looked up at me, her eyes glistening.
"It's not working," she whispered. "I'm just tired. And I'm still scared."
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
The sweat was glistening on her collarbone. Her lips were parted. The pulse in her neck was fluttering like a trapped bird.
The Wolf in my head slammed against the bars of its cage.
She is ready. She is waiting.
"It's not working because you're still holding onto the railing," I murmured.
I closed the distance. I grabbed her wrist—gently, thumb over her pulse point—and pulled her toward the bench press.
"Sit," I ordered.
She sat. She looked up at me, wary but trusting. That trust was a heavy weight around my neck.
I stood between her spread knees. I shouldn't be here. This was too close. The heat radiating off her body was mixing with mine, creating a localized tropical storm.
"You want to know what it feels like to not be scared?" I asked, my voice dropping to that gravelly sub-register that I knew affected her.
"Yes," she breathed.
"Then stop trying to control the outcome," I said. "Close your eyes."
She hesitated. She bit her lip—a nervous tic that drew my attention to the plush, pink softness of her mouth. I wanted to bite it too.
"Leo..."
"Close them," I commanded. "Trust me."
She closed her eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks.
Now, she was blind. Now, she was vulnerable.
I watched her for a moment. I cataloged the small details: the freckle on her left earlobe, the way her chest rose and fell, the way her hands gripped the edge of the leather bench until her knuckles turned white.
"What do you hear?" I asked softly.
"The... the hum of the refrigerator upstairs," she whispered. "My own heartbeat."
"What else?"
"Your breathing," she said. "It's slow."
"What do you smell?"
A flush crept up her neck. "You."
"Be specific."
"Cedar," she listed, her voice trembling. "And... something sharp. Like ozone. And something else I can't name. It smells like... hunger."
I smiled grimly. She was learning.
"Good," I murmured.
I reached out. I didn't touch her skin yet. I ran my hands down the air just inches from her arms, letting the heat of my palms register without making contact. I saw goosebumps erupt on her skin, chasing the path of my hands.
"You're reacting," I said. "Your body is reacting before I even touch you. That's the music, Maya. The notes are just the anticipation. The feeling is what happens in the space between."
I moved my hand to her face. I traced the line of her jaw with my thumb, barely skimming the skin. She shuddered, leaning into the touch.
"You're so responsive," I observed, the praise slipping out. "You're like a tuned instrument. You just need someone who knows how to play you."
Her eyes flew open. They were dark, blown wide with realization and desire.
"Play me," she whispered.
The invitation hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
I froze. This was the line. If I crossed it, I wasn't just her teacher anymore. I was her lover. I was her problem.
But looking at her—sweaty, disheveled, looking at me like I was the only water in the desert—I knew I didn't have the strength to walk away.
"Remember the deal," I warned, my voice rough. "I'm in control. You don't move unless I say so. You don't speak unless I ask you a question."
She nodded mutely.
"Words, Maya."
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, Leo."
I reached down and hooked my hands under her thighs, dragging her forward until her hips were flush against the edge of the bench. I stepped in, my thighs locking hers in place.
I wasn't going to kiss her. Kissing was emotional. Kissing was a promise.
This... this was just sensation. This was just a lesson.
(Liar.)
I brought my hand up to her neck, my fingers threading into the damp hair at the base of her skull. I tilted her head back, exposing the long, white column of her throat.
I lowered my head.
I didn't bite. I licked.
I dragged my tongue slowly up the sensitive cord of her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat and the sweet vanilla beneath it.
She made a sound—a high, keen whine that went straight to my groin. Her hands came up to grip my biceps, her fingers digging in.
"Easy," I murmured against her skin. "Relax your shoulders. Let me take the weight."
I moved higher, mouthing along her jawline, feeling the vibration of her whimpers against my lips. I inhaled deeply near her ear, letting the sound of my intake of breath make her shiver.
"You smell incredible," I told her, the truth slipping out. "Like sugar and trouble."
My hand drifted down from her hair. I ran my palm over her shoulder, down her arm, and then settled it on her ribcage, just below her breast. I could feel her heart hammering against my palm.
"Leo," she pleaded. "Please."
"Please what?" I asked, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye.
"Touch me," she begged. " really touch me."
"I am touching you."
"No," she shook her head, her hips rocking forward instinctively, seeking friction. "Stop teasing me."
I smirked. "But you need to learn patience. The crescendo is better if you wait for it."
I slid my hand down. Past her ribs. Past her waist.
I rested my hand flat on her stomach, over the waistband of the sweatpants.
"You're tight," I noted. "Your muscles are clenched. You're bracing for impact."
"I'm nervous," she admitted.
"Don't be."
I moved my hand lower.