Kasien （Age 18）
Kasien
The hit comes so fast I don’t even see the arm, just the impact. A fist slams into my ribs from the right side, exactly where my guard is a half-second too slow. The air punches out of my lungs and my vision sparks white for a moment.
I stumble back, feet scraping the mat, and before I can reset my stance, another strike comes from the opposite angle.
A classic defense drill, only this time he isn’t holding back.
I bring my forearm up just in time and the next blow crashes into the bone with a dull thud. Pain radiates through my wrist.
He doesn’t pause. He never does. He closes the distance immediately, grabbing the back of my neck in a clinch, shoving my head downward with brutal force.
My spine folds whether I want it to or not.
I try to break the clinch the way we were taught—hand on his wrist, forearm cutting inside to create space.
But he jerks me forward at the same moment and my forehead nearly cracks against his shoulder.
My nose fills with the smell of sweat and the rubber of the training mats.
He’s going for the knee to the face. I feel the shift in his hips before it even comes.
I turn sharply, driving my forearm diagonally across his thigh to disrupt the strike, and drop my weight.
My left foot pivots, my right shoots up in a groin kick, the kind we’re technically supposed to "pull" during drills.
I don’t pull it enough.
He grunts, grip loosening, and I wrench myself free, sucking air back into my lungs.
I burst forward. My fist connects with something solid—jaw or cheek, I can’t tell.
My palm slams next, pushing his head back.
I follow with a tight elbow strike aimed at the side of his temple.
But he blocks it. His hand snaps up, catches my elbow, and before I can redirect, he yanks me forward, twisting my balance out from under me.
My feet skid. His shoulder drives into my chest, taking me down in a body-drag takedown they usually teach only to older students. My back hits the mat so hard the shock steals my breath again.
His knee drops onto my sternum. Not a full strike, but enough weight to pin me. His forearm comes across my throat once more, angled perfectly, just enough pressure to hurt, not enough to crush.
Before I can twist out of it, Adrien switches positions in one fluid motion and is straddling me now.
Knee on either side of my hips, weight dropped low, pinning me to the mat so effectively that even the instructor glances over for a second.
Adrien braces one palm on my chest, the other raised for another strike, drops of sweat sliding down his curls.
“Again,” he growls.
I freeze for half a second. This exact position hits my brain like a punch.
Kiara on my lap in the car two days ago, fingers in my hair, dress hiked up, her breath in my mouth. Her weight settled on me in that perfect, stupid way that made every molecule in my body rebel at once. Instant heat crawls up my neck.
No fucking way in hell is my brain replaying that while Adrien is straddling me in a sweaty gym.
I blink, exhale sharply, and glare up at him.
He’s practically engineered to look like an emotionally unavailable angel with razor blades for cheekbones, but that does nothing for me except make me want to punch him.
“Get the fuck off,” I mutter.
He raises an eyebrow, deadpan.
“Make me,” he smirks.
Adrien’s weight holds me down just enough to piss me off, not enough to actually keep me there.
I roll my eyes so hard it should count as a warm-up stretch. Before he can even finish his smirk, I snap my hips to the side, trap his wrist, and twist.
He loses balance for half a heartbeat, which is enough.
I plant my foot, bridge up hard, and flip him clean off me. He hits the mat with a dull thud and a very offended inhale. I get up in one motion, wiping sweat from my face with my T-shirt, but it’s completely soaked. Adrien sits up, ruffles his hair back, and scoffs.
“Finally awake,” he mutters.
I snort. “You’re heavy.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re distracted.” He smiles.
Yeah. No kidding. He knows why.
“What was your deal at that party?” I ask him while still catching my breath, sweat leaking into my eyes so I can’t even see properly, but I still see how his jaw tightens, the cocky expression immediately gone, replaced with something distant.
“Nothing. Let it go.”
I don’t buy that, but I’m not gonna pry it out of him like he’s some drama queen.
I take off the soaked T-shirt while Adrien does the same.
The number of tattoos on his upper body is increasing, and I don’t get how he can do that all by himself.
I take a towel and finally dry my face so the sweat stops burning my eyes.
I look up at the gym clock—two in the afternoon. This is the longest day ever. I had to fight myself yesterday to get Kiara home from her shift without keeping her in my car until the night.
But she was clearly really tired after work and with the hangover. I need to let my girl sleep sometimes.
However, I need to see her today.
Adrien told me not to wait any longer since I have just four more days before the Varners get back and the mansion turns into a hellhole again. How long can her shift be on Monday? I think I can text her around four p.m., or five. I look at the clock again.
Just three more hours.
We get out of the gym, both of us hitting showers. We have another two-hour lesson on law, but I can’t keep my mind straight. My brain is switching to Kiara every five minutes.
It got intense in that car.
I could jerk off all day and I’d still get hard the second I hold her. I don’t want to scare her off, I don’t want to rush anything.
But my body is like someone injected hormones into my veins since I met her. I guess it’s normal.
?
I’m ignoring half the stuff the professor says. I probably know it all anyway.
When he finally finishes, Adrien shoots up immediately. I follow him and grab my phone the second we’re out of the university auditorium where we go to take the private classes.
Me: Can I see you tonight?
K.: Already at work. I’m finishing at nine.
Me: I’ll be there.
I let my head fall back and close my eyes in frustration as we go through the university hall.
Another four hours.
Why is she doing this to me? I need to get her fired or something.
No, she would probably get furious. But she’s really cute when she’s pissed. I might do that.
I shouldn’t though.
We get to Adrien’s car and pick up Natalya from her training. She’s awkwardly quiet, for once.
I like that.
My mind can peacefully go back to the events of two days ago.
Is this how a normal teenager is supposed to feel? I feel like I’m getting addicted to something, like a fucking freak.
?
I take the elevator to the fifth floor of the Sunrise Hotel, checking myself in the huge mirror.
I was so distracted today I missed half my blocks and caught about five punches straight to the face.
Some spots are already turning blue. I look like a beaten-up idiot who doesn’t know how to fight properly.
Perfect.
I get out of the elevator and the same hostess as always is already smiling at me, her reservation book in hand. Jesus. Of course Kiara has to work in the one hotel the Varners use for all their investment meetings. I pull my hood up so I don’t feel so exposed.
“Good evening, Mr. Varner,” she squeals.
Ugh.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Don’t call me that.
I frown at the sound of that disgusting surname and before she can say anything else, I slide a few hundred bills into her hand.
“I wasn’t here today,” I mutter.
She nods immediately.
The bar area is dim, gold-lit, quiet enough that every sound feels too loud.
I take a seat at the end of the marble bar, hood still on, elbows on the counter, tapping my fingers against the counter, ignoring the bartender looking at my hands.
His eyes shoot up to mine and he instantly freezes and takes off.
Good.
Kiara comes to me with a smile on her face, eyes big, hair in that messy bun that should not be allowed to exist because it makes my brain stop functioning. She looks surprised. And way too happy to see me.
“You’re early,” she says, stepping closer, shy smile playing on her lips. “I still have half an hour.”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging slightly, like I didn’t sprint here mentally for the last twelve hours. “I’m sorry, I’ll wait.” I shift on the bar stool and rest my head on my wrist, not taking my eyes off her as she takes off and goes to clean some tables.
She gets behind the bar and her coworker leans in to whisper something to her while very obviously staring at me. Kiara glances my way, rolls her eyes, and disappears into the staff room.
What was that? What now?
I narrow my eyes on her coworker. I don’t think she knows who I am. I hope she doesn’t. Kiara comes back out—no apron, bag in her hand, smile she’s trying to hide but definitely not succeeding. She walks right up to me.
“You just shortened my shift, you dumbass,” she says, like she absolutely couldn’t wait to see me.
Cute doesn’t even cover it.
A grin pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. I take her bag without asking and lead her out of the restaurant. As soon as the elevator light hits our faces, she frowns at me.
“What happened to you?”
“Training,” I tell her.
“What training?”
Here we go. Do I have to lie? Is it normal to have like six physical training sessions a week? Probably not.
I hum for too long.
“Kickboxing.”
“You’re doing kickboxing?”
“Sometimes. Helps me to fall asleep in class the next day.” I give her a wink.
Very smooth, very believable, very teenager.
She just shakes her head and laughs at me.
Good.
“Are you hungry?” I ask her before we get out of the elevator on the first floor.
“No. Ate at work.”
“So you’re thirsty at least.”
We head toward the coffee shop by the hotel entrance and I pick up two big smoothies, handing her one.