Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
BASTION
She was in the middle of the floor like she owned the fucking place.
No mat. No music. No awareness of the fact that thirty armed men lived here — and she was currently stretched out in the main lounge like it was her private yoga studio .
Her back arched into a bridge, tank top riding up over her ribs. One leg bent, the other extended, toes perfectly pointed. Her golden ponytail was tied high and messy, strands clinging to her flushed cheeks.
I froze in the doorway.
It felt like walking into a trap.
Except the trap was smiling.
She hadn’t seen me yet.
Her arms trembled slightly as she shifted, pulling one knee to her chest, hips rolling open, exhaling slow and focused.
Not a single care in the world.
Not a single thought about who might be watching.
I leaned against the doorframe, jaw tight.
This wasn’t the gym .
This was our lounge. Our war room. The place where strategy got built and grudges got sharpened. Where the boys drank and smoked and cleaned guns. Where our cousins played poker and talked deals.
And there she was.
Sprawled across the rug in spandex shorts, stretching like it was Sunday morning in suburbia.
I didn’t know if I wanted to throw a towel over her… or drop to my knees and drag my hands up her thighs.
She bent forward, forehead to the floor, hips flexing deep into a split.
My pulse kicked.
She was flexible.
Too flexible.
And she didn’t care who saw it.
I made a sound — low in my throat — and she looked up.
Her face lit up like I wasn’t the very thing she should’ve been afraid of.
“Oh hey,” she said, bright, breathless from the workout. “Didn’t think anyone was around. Just needed to stretch my hips before they locked up.”
I didn’t speak.
I couldn’t.
She sat back on her heels, flushed and glowing. Her top clung to her chest. The waistband of her shorts dipped low on her hips, exposing a sliver of skin above the hem.
“You want me to move?” she asked casually. Like I wasn’t two seconds away from burning the whole building down.
“This isn’t the gym,” I said flatly.
“I know. But the gym’s crowded. And the carpet’s better on my knees.”
Fuck .
She blinked, like she didn’t hear what that sounded like. Or maybe she did.
“Don’t say shit like that,” I muttered, dragging a hand over my jaw.
“Like what?” she tilted her head. All fake innocence.
I stared at her. “You know what.”
She smiled slowly. “Maybe I don’t.”
I stepped forward before I could stop myself.
She didn’t flinch.
Just looked up at me from the floor—wide-eyed and glowing. Chest rising too fast. Lips parted like she wanted to be kissed.
“If you’re trying to drive us insane,” I said, low, “it’s working.”
“I’m not trying anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
Her breath hitched.
My hands twitched at my sides.
One more second and I would’ve done it—dropped beside her, grabbed her by the waist, and kissed that smug little look off her face.
But then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Luca’s voice. Close.
She reached for her water bottle, casual again. Like she hadn’t just set me on fire in our own house.
I backed away without a word and left the room. Because if I stayed… I wasn’t going to keep pretending.
LUCA
I heard Bastion’s footsteps before I saw him. Fast. Tight. Controlled in that way he only got when he was about to lose it.
He brushed past me in the hall without a word, jaw clenched so hard I could see it twitch.
He didn’t look at me.
Didn’t need to.
I already knew what that look meant.
So I kept walking.
Turned the corner into the lounge—and froze.
There she was.
Emilia Adams.
Still on the floor. Still flushed. Tank top clinging. Ponytail messy. Water bottle at her lips as she caught her breath, legs folded beneath her like she hadn’t just turned the house into a furnace .
She looked up when she saw me.
And smiled.
Big. Soft. Like we weren’t Crows. Like we weren’t trained to destroy what didn’t belong. Like she hadn’t made half the house hate her just by existing.
“Hey,” she said, like it was nothing. “Sorry if I’m in the way. I’ll move.”
She always said that. I’ll move. Like she expected to be pushed out of every room she entered. Like the only way to survive here was to shrink herself small enough we wouldn’t bother noticing her.
But I noticed.
I the way her shorts hugged her hips. The little pink elastic on her wrist. The notebook beside her, open to math notes—she was always working. Always trying.
Always being nice.
And it was starting to piss me off .
Not because it was fake.
Because it wasn’t.
“Did you stretch after your run too?” she asked, uncapping her water. “Your calves always tighten, right?”
I blinked.
“…What?”
Her smile didn’t fade. “You limp a little after sprint sets. I figured your legs were tight.”
I stared at her.
She noticed that?
She noticed everything.
I crossed my arms. “You’re not supposed to care.”
“Why not?”
“Because this house doesn’t care about you.”
She tilted her head. “Then maybe it needs someone who does.”
I hated that answer.
Because it was honest.
Because it was her.
Soft where we were sharp. Open where we were closed. She offered warmth in a house built to bury it, and she didn’t even seem scared.
“You really think being nice is going to change anything?” I asked.
She met my eyes.
“No,” she said. “But I’d rather lose being kind than win becoming someone I hate.”
Silence.
She turned back to her notebook, tucking her legs under herself like we weren’t all one second away from combusting around her.
And I stood there.
Unable to look away .
Because she was golden. And stupid. And brave in a way none of us knew how to be anymore.
And it scared the hell out of me.
Not because she was soft.
Because she was starting to soften me .