Luna
EIGHT
I watch him fight for the one thing he tries so hard to hang on to as he weighs what I just said. His whole stance is tense, and part of me wonders if he’ll take the easy way out and leave. It’s clear he doesn’t want to be here, but I haven’t figured out why.
“Don’t hold your breath with that one,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “I don’t give up control easily.”
“And I don’t back away from a challenge.” I break eye contact and walk over to the table. Pulling my hoodie over my head, I strip down to my sports bra. Sweat is already forming down my back, and I’ve never felt this out of it with a client.
Nothing could have shocked me more than to see Cayden standing here when I came in, looking every bit as devastatingly handsome as I remembered him.
Determined to put on a professional stance and get through this session in one piece, I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and turn to face my new client.
His eyes rake down my chest before holding me captive with their dark intensity. His hands fist at his sides before he slowly unclenches them and grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head, leaving him standing there with grey sweats hanging low on his hips.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says sharply, his jaw hard and rigid. “It’s hot as hell in here and since you stripped first…,” he shrugs his shoulders and throws his shirt on the table.
I try not to stare, but there’s not a single thing on this Earth that could have stopped me from taking in the sight before me.
I’m drawn to the broad planes of his chest, the distinct lines of muscle shifting subtly with every breath. There’s a quiet strength there—controlled and restrained—and it does something dangerous to my pulse as I feel it rapidly increase.
The dark ink across his heart is haunting as wings stretch over his chest.
One side is darker—heavier. Like it’s been dragged through something that scarred its beauty, and barely made it out alive—the feathers maimed and broken.
The other wing, opposite his heart, is lighter, almost translucent, as if it’s trying to become something whole again.
And between them—a crack.
Deep and permanent, splitting the wings right down the center.
Every inch of him is built like armor, as if he’s spent years holding everything in and refusing to let anything through.
My eyes trail lower following the deep ridges of his abs, and for a brief, reckless second, I wonder what it would take to break through that shield he’s constructed around him and how it would feel to be let in.
Clearing my throat and thoughts, I refuse to let him distract me from my job, no matter how tempting he may be.
“Let’s start on our mats for breathing,” I say, ignoring his comment about me stripping first. I know he’s baiting me and hoping I’ll get uncomfortable enough to bail on him.
He clearly doesn’t know me well enough because I don’t give up easily.
I didn’t get to where I am today with dance without a lot of hard work and persistence.
I sit cross-legged on my mat and pat the spot next to me.
He stares at the spot and hesitates briefly when he realizes I’m going through with this, but he doesn’t argue with me as he takes a seat on the mat next to mine.
“Before we begin, tell me more about this pain you’ve been having,” I ask, once he’s settled next to me.
“Started a couple of years ago. I thought maybe I had injured myself somehow, and started physical therapy sessions, but nothing seems to help. Just comes with the territory, I suppose.” He leans back on his hands and focuses on a spot on the floor in front of him.
“Territory…meaning the sport you play?” He nods, but doesn’t elaborate. “Which is?” I ask when it’s clear he’s done talking.
His head whips up, a surprised look on his face. “You really don’t know, do you?” His lips slightly lift at the corner as if what I asked was funny to him. “Hockey. I play hockey.”
“Hockey?” I expected football or maybe even basketball from his height, but I didn’t expect him to be skating around on ice.
“Yes, hockey. You know, the sport where you try to get the black thing called a puck into a net?” He’s full on mocking me now as I roll my eyes.
“I know what hockey is,” I mutter.
“Just making sure,” he chuckles softly.
“How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was two.”
“Are you any good?” I ask and quickly regret my question as his eyes meet mine. Heat flashes across those greens, and a playful smirk appears on his handsome face, making my stomach do a double flip as the air shifts between us.
“I’m the best,” he says in a low voice that has my insides clutching with an unspoken desire. His eyes hold mine, and you can almost hear the energy around us crackle and hiss, ready and waiting for the moment to ignite us both.
He finally pulls away, breaking the connection, and I slowly let a breath out before painfully trying to let some oxygen in.
“I’m going to guide you through some breaths,” I finally say, finding my voice and needing to remember I’m here to do a job.
The last thing I want is him telling his coach I suck at my job, and it getting back to my mom.
These extra yoga sessions help me put money back into my dance studio, and I need a good review from him in case his coach has other players who need help.
I don’t know anything about hockey. I mean, I know the Bolts are a big deal in Bayside, but I have no clue how many local teams are in the area. It’s actually cute to think of him in some dad league having a hobby he enjoys.
I smile at the thought as I get back into teacher mode.
“I’m going to have you lie down, so you’re more comfortable.”
He eyes me warily, but does as I ask. Grabbing a bolster, I slide it under his knees to release pressure on his lower back and hips, instructing him to bring the soles of his feet together, allowing his knees to fall open at the sides, opening him up where he is tight.
“Does that feel okay?”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” he grits out, his jaw clenched and turned to stone.
“Good,” I smile. “Now close your eyes for me and try to relax.”
“Easier said than done,” he mutters, as his eyes slowly close.
“Just trust me,” I say, softly.
His body tenses slightly, and I can tell he’s hanging on tight to that control.
“I want you to breathe deep for me through your nose and exhale through your mouth.”
I watch his body rise and fall with each breath, studying his subtle body movements. Even as his body settles, there’s still tension threaded through him. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to pull himself back together—his jaw tight and determined.
He doesn’t know how to let go.
Or doesn’t trust himself enough if he does.
“Slower,” I instruct, placing my hand on his lower abdomen. The sudden contact of his skin sends tiny jolts of electricity through my body as heat rushes up my arm. I almost pull away from the extreme intensity of it all, but I remind myself I have a job to do.
He flinches beneath my palm, and I don’t know if it’s from me or everything he’s trying so hard not to feel. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, but slowly starts to relax into my touch.
“Breathe deeper this time and slowly release, filling my palm as you exhale,” I quietly murmur, feeling his body let go more, but still not completely.
“Clear your mind, and just focus on the sound of your breathing. With each inhale, you are breathing life back into your body, and with each exhale, you are letting go of anything that no longer serves you.”
My voice is calm and soothing as I feel him sink deeper into relaxation. I notice his shoulders drop slightly and the lines on his face soften, letting himself go just a little bit more.
“Good,” I encourage softly. “Just like that.” I feel his stomach expand more as I watch the rise and fall of his chest. My eyes drift to his tattoo, and it’s then that I notice the faint glow of a small star seeping through the jagged crack between the wings.
“A star.” The whisper comes out before I can stop it.
My hand raises by my side and hovers over the intricate drawing, tracing the blurred lines seared into his skin of pain and destruction. It’s so beautifully haunting, pulling me into its sadness.
My throat tightens, and I sense his eyes on me before I shift my gaze to meet his. The green depths of the ocean are focused on me, and my throat constricts in a tight vise as I struggle to make sense of it all.
“Not for who I lost,” he says quietly.
My eyes shift back to the star before lifting to meet his gaze again.
“It’s for who I didn’t.”
My breath catches, the air in the room shifting in a way I don’t know how to steady.
Scarlett.
She’s his star. The promise of light that keeps him going.
I look back at the ink splayed across his chest and see it for what it truly is.
It’s not about a memory.
Or even grief.
It’s about survival.
She isn’t just his reason to keep going—she’s the only reason he didn’t stop.
And for the first time since he walked into this room, I understand exactly how much he’s been carrying, and it hits me harder than it should.
Somewhere between his breath beneath my hand and the story carved into his skin…he’s becoming more than just another body I’m trying to fix.
“Were you and Scarlett's mom married?” I’m unable to stop myself from asking, feeling a deep need to know more about him. The silence stretches between us before he finally replies.
“Yeah,” he sighs.
An ache settles deep in my chest, weaving its way around my heart.
He lost his wife.
The four words sink in, and suddenly, the impenetrable walls around him all make sense.
“How long has she been gone?” I ask softly.
“Almost three years.” His throat bobs as he swallows hard before his brows draw slightly together like he’s feeling something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
Not wanting to overwhelm him on his first session, I remove my hand that’s still touching his stomach and reach for the straps.
“I’m going to have you hold a few poses that are good for the hips,” I say, quietly, giving him a moment to come to terms with what he’s feeling.
“Our bodies keep score of every emotion we have. When we hold onto grief, anger…guilt, it’s stored deep inside,” I explain, slipping the strap under his lower back to anchor it before securing it around the bottom of his feet, “it can manifest into physical pain in our bodies.” I pull it tight enough to open his hips more before sitting back.
“I never knew yoga was so BDSM.” He touches the straps I have him in, and I almost get a smile.
A blush creeps up my neck, and I avert his gaze.
“You’re blushing,” he observes, feeling his eyes still on me.
“It’s ninety degrees in here, of course, I’m flushed,” I quickly defend myself. I’m not about to admit that his little comment made me want to trade places with him and let him be the one to take control.
“Whatever you say,” he softly laughs.
“The hips and lower back tend to be where we store energy associated with fear and trauma,” I reply, ignoring his comment and focusing on what I’m here for.
“So, my hip pain is because I have some unresolved shit that I haven’t dealt with?” He practically rolls his eyes, clearly not believing me.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ll make a deal with you.” I get his attention immediately as he furrows his brows.
“What kind of deal?”
“You keep an open mind for the next thirty minutes while I work on you, and if you don’t feel any different from when you first came in here, I’ll call your coach personally and tell him I can’t help you.
I was told you don’t want to be here anyway, so I’m your out,” I shrug, giving it to him straight.
He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth as he contemplates what I just said.
“Deal,” he nods, closing his eyes and settling into the pose I have him in.
“Let’s get to work then,” I breathe out in relief that he’s going to give this a shot. I’m too deeply invested now and know without a doubt I can help him.
“Just for the record, though,” he says, opening one eye to peer at me. “If you start to hogtie me with these straps, I’m walking away. Deal or no deal.”
“Scared to be tied up by a woman?” I tease.
“No. I just prefer to be the one to do the tying.”