Chapter 15 Mara
MARA
Ikeep my eyes shut, wishing to stay asleep for a little longer, but the warm rays of the sun are heating up my face in an unbearable way. Twisting around, I push my face into my pillows, but I give up trying to go back to sleep.
That’s when I realize that I didn’t fall asleep in my bed last night. Nicolo came into my room late last night. Something had happened. I panicked, and he…helped me through it. Then I fell asleep on the couch…against him.
I don’t have time to replay it on a loop, to pick apart the way his hand was steady on mine or how his voice was low enough to make me forget the panic.
Because the universe doesn’t give me time.
A strong, demanding knock sounds at my door before it swings open and in comes the robotic caveman who helped me through yesterday’s panic attack.
His gaze zeros in on me before he bluntly says, “Get up and wear something comfortable.”
“Good morning to you too. Do you only speak in orders?”
He ignores me and turns to leave without even a response, but stops and turns his head to look at me again. “And I don’t mean those short dresses.”
I know I shouldn’t, not after what happened yesterday, but I can’t help pushing him. “So just panties and a bra?”
Nicolo tenses, his hands balling into fists at his side. “Sweats and a goddamn shirt.”
“I don’t have sweats. I don’t wear sweats.”
He turns his full body to look at me, eyes narrowing, as if he can’t believe what I’ve said. “Leggings?”
I almost laugh at how annoyed he looks. Nicolo usually has no expression on his face, unless you count the existential look of boredom as an expression.
“I have leggings.”
He nods.
“Get changed and meet me at the bottom of the stairs. Don’t take too long. Patience for brats is not one of my virtues.” That’s the last thing he says before he shuts the door behind him.
I push off the bed and take my time doing every single little detail in my routine. I’m certainly not rushing just because a man told me to. Pulling up my hair into a slick ponytail, I pull my bedroom door open and head downstairs.
Slow and steady wins the race, as they say. I don’t know if that’s, true but I’m willing to play the long game. I have nothing better to do. And if he thinks taking my phone is going to get me to stop messing with him, he’s dumber than I thought.
When I finally make it to the end of the stairs, Nicolo is standing there on his phone, rapidly speaking in Italian. And I swear when his gaze lands on me, I see his eye twitch in irritation.
He wraps up the call and slips his phone in his pocket. “Did you take forty-five minutes to get ready because that’s how long it takes you or because you wanted to piss me off?”
I’m thrown off for a minute by his question. He’s not the type to ask these kinds of things.
“Just to piss you off.” I give him a sickly-sweet smile, which he narrows his eyes at before shaking his head.
“Follow me,” he grumbles as he walks ahead of me.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I trail after him.
“You’ll see.” His tone is short, clipped, the kind that warns me not to push.
Naturally, I contemplate pushing anyway.
We move through the halls until he stops at a set of heavy double doors and pushes them open.
The smell of leather and steel hits me instantly.
My eyes widen as I take in the space: an entire gym tucked inside the Castello.
Black mats cover the floor, a wall of mirrors reflects racks of weights, punching bags hang in neat rows, and at the far end sits a glass case lined with weapons.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I step inside slowly, glancing around like I’ve just stumbled into a villain’s lair. “Of course the robotic caveman has his own torture chamber.”
His gaze cuts to me, sharp enough to make my stomach flip. “This isn’t a torture chamber. It’s a training room.”
I give him a sugary smile. “Semantics.”
He ignores me, walking across the mat until he’s standing in the center. His hands slide into his pockets, his stance casual, but the weight in his gaze is anything but.
“Last night proved something.”
I fold my arms. “That you’re secretly human under all the steel and stone?”
His jaw tightens. “That you’re a liability.”
Ouch. Straight to the jugular.
He continues, voice like gravel. “If you can’t defend yourself, you won’t survive. I won’t always be there to drag you out of harm’s way, and neither will your brothers or guards.”
I bristle at that, even as my chest pinches at the reminder of my panic attack. “So, what? You’re going to play personal trainer?”
He nods once, not catching what I’m throwing. Or he just chooses to ignore it. “Starting now.”
I glance at the mirrors, then back at him, smirking. “Do I get a whistle and some motivational shouting? Maybe a sticker chart when I behave?”
Nicolo’s lips twitch, barely, but the flicker of irritation—or maybe amusement—is there. He steps closer, and suddenly the air feels heavier.
“You’ll get your phone back.”
That makes my heart jolt. “When?”
“When I see progress.” His gaze drops to my leggings, then back to my face. “Until then, you belong here. On this mat. With me.”
“That’s subjective to what you think progress is,” I point out.
His head tilts to the side as if he’s assessing me. “Exactly.” Nicolo steps onto the mat and crooks two fingers at me. “Here.”
I arch a brow. “What, no warmup? No inspirational speech?”
“Move, Mara.” His voice is low, sharp, and it makes my pulse skip.
I sigh dramatically and shuffle onto the mat, standing a few feet away from him with my arms crossed. “Okay. What now?”
“Stance.” He motions with his chin. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands up.”
I mimic what I’ve seen in movies, my arms limp, my balance off. I know I look ridiculous, and I do it on purpose.
His jaw tightens. In two strides, he’s in front of me, and before I can blink, his hands close over my wrists. His touch is firm, almost too warm, as he yanks my arms higher, angling my elbows.
“You’ll break your face if you try to block like that.”
I glance up at him through my lashes. “So protective.”
His gaze darkens, but he ignores me, stepping closer until his chest nearly brushes mine. He kicks at my ankle with the side of his shoe, forcing my legs further apart.
“Lower your center of gravity. You’re not a porcelain doll.”
“Wow,” I murmur, smirking. “You actually notice I’m not breakable. Progress.”
His fingers flex against my wrist, a warning squeeze. “Don’t mistake correction for softness. If you can’t take this seriously, I’ll make you.”
The threat in his tone sends a shiver straight down my spine. I want to scoff and roll my eyes, but with him this close, towering over me, my throat dries. His scent—smoke and something darker—wraps around me.
“Good,” he mutters, his eyes locked on mine like he’s daring me to look away. “Now hold it.”
My arms ache within seconds, but pride keeps me frozen in the position he left me in. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me buckle.
When I finally drop my hands with a groan, his mouth curves—not quite a smile, more like victory carved into stone. “Pathetic.”
I bristle, straightening up. “I’ll get better.”
“You will.” Nicolo takes a step back, his eyes narrowing. “Or you don’t get your phone.” He circles me like a predator assessing prey. “Hands up.”
I groan but obey, lifting my arms into the stance he forced me into earlier. My shoulders ache already.
He steps closer, eyes scanning me from head to toe, clinical and cold. “You’re sloppy.”
“Wow. Thank you, coach. I feel so motivated.”
His gaze sharpens. “Attack me.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Come at me.”
I snort, lowering my hands. “Right. Because I’m really in the mood to throw myself at a wall of muscle and watch my bones snap in half.”
In a blink, he moves. His hand snakes around my wrist, twisting gently but firmly, and suddenly my back hits the mat. My breath whooshes out of me as he pins me there, one knee braced beside my hip, his grip locking me down like iron.
I freeze, staring up at him. His face is expressionless, his weight a cage I can’t wriggle out of. Heat coils low in my stomach.
“Lesson one,” he says, voice low, lethal. “Hesitation will get you killed.”
My heart slams against my ribs while my mouth works before my brain can catch up. “You could at least buy me dinner first.”
His eyes narrow, and for one dangerous second, I think he might snap.
Instead, he leans close until his shadow swallows me whole. “You think this is a game. It’s not.”
My breath hitches. His gaze lingers on mine—heavy, unblinking. Then, abruptly, he pushes off me and stands, leaving me sprawled on the mat, my skin buzzing with something I don’t want to name.
“Again.” His tone is clipped, final.
I sit up, pride stinging, pulse racing. And for the first time, I realize this “training” isn’t about self-defense. It’s about control. His. Mine. Each of us daring the other to break first.