Chapter <i>72 </i>
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Emery paced inside her room. It was three in the morning. She clearly recalled Logan telling her that she needed to be there at dawn. Is three too early for dawn? Should she… wait until it’s four?
“What the heck am I doing?” she mumbled. Was she nervous? Yes, she was. A hundred percent nervous.
“No. 1 should be angry,” she mumbled. Yes. That’s right. She should be angry and not nerous.
Emery checked the time again: 3:07 a.m. She scrolled to Nina’s name, thumb poised over the call icon, then pressed the side button and darkened the screen. Note–night confession. No dragging Nina into this.
Wearing Jeans, tank top and sneakers. She slipped into the hallway and followed her memory toward Logan’s office. The mansion was quiet except for the faint hum of air units hidden in crown molding.
She reached the carved doors, hand closing on the bronze handle. “He’s not there,” a voice said behind her.
She spun. Caius leaned on a column, robe drawn tight, coffee in hand. “Where is he?” she asked.
Caius studied her, then took a sip. “You are moving around at three in the morning with no escort. Most humans would be hiding under the sheets.”
She shrugged. “Sheets never saved anyone.”
He gave a shortugh. “I expected fear. At least hesitation.”
“I have plenty of fear,” she said. “I just keep it busy.”
Caius tilted the mug. “Fair answer. Still thought you would bolt. Secrets this big make people run.”
“Could I even get out?” Emery asked. “Past your cameras and traps?”
“Not a chance.” He gestured down the hallway. “Thermal sensors on every approach. Pressure mats in the grass. Motion detectors tuned to heartbeats. Exterior walls are ballistic steel over concrete. EMP shielding on the grid. Roof has two drone nests–rubber rounds for humans, tungsten darts for tougher visitors. Stinger arrays under the eaves for anything that flies. There is a safe room two levels down with its own tunnel to a fallback site. If someone lobs a missile, interceptorsunch before impact.”
Emery’s brow rose despite herself. “All that for one family?”
“Logan has enemies who n instead of hope,” Caius said. “Supernaturals, syndicates, people who think the world owes them his head. The house is a line they have never crossed.”
“And I am stuck inside the line.”
“For now.” Caius took another drink. “Which is why I wondered if you would panic.”
She met his gaze. “If I freeze, I die. If I run, I probably die, too. Thinking seems smarter.”
“Smarter than most.” He nodded toward the stairs. “Logan spent the night in the basement gym. When he
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broods, he hits the heavy bag until the leather bleeds. Take the elevator, the buttons has names on it.”
“Boxing keeps him sane?”
“Sometimes.” Caius’s expression tightened. “It does not heal everything.”
Emery inhaled, looked toward the stairwell, then back at him. “You said it only gets harder. Harder how?”
“Political vows. Packs watching. Council watching. Your child changes every equation.” He paused. “And Gabriel is only one wolf with a grudge. Others will test the border.”
She absorbed that, pulse steady but fast. “Then I learn, like I said.”
Caius inclined his head. “Training yard at dawn. Logan will make it brutal but fair.”
“I can live with that,” she said, turning toward the staircase.
Caius called after her. “Fear is normal, Emery. Use it. Do not let it use you.”
She nodded once, then descended. The elevator doors opened to the lower level, and the faint thud of gloves on canvas reached her just before she stepped inside.
When the doors slid open, Emery stepped onto the rubber flooring and paused. A dozen punching bags hung from steel beams, but halfy ruptured on the ground–sand spilling like pale gravel. One bag still swung. Logan hit it with short, brutal hooks, sweat darkening the back of his shirt.
She stayed quiet. After a final strike, the chain snapped, sending the bag to the mat with a thud. He reached for a bottle, drank, then spoke without turning.
“Dawn is at five. You are early.”
“You said dawn,” she answered. “I hate beingte.”
He faced her, eyes darker than before. “Did you sleep?”
“A little. Secrets make lousy lubies.”
Logan walked closer, rolling his taped wrists. “You look good.”
“I am not here forpliments.”
“Observation, not ttery.” He stopped a foot away, gaze sliding from her shoes to her eyes. “Jeans will restrict your kicks.”
“I will risk it,” she said, tipping her chin. “I haven’t bought anything for a work out like that.”
He reached past her to a shelf, grabbed fresh wraps, and held them out. She took them. Their fingers brushed, heat sparked along her palm.
“Hands up,” he said.
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<b>64 </b>
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She lifted her arms. He wound the fabric around her wrists–careful, slow. Each pass of cloth drew them. closer until his breath warmed her check..
“Your heartbeat is fast,” he noted.
“Yours is louder,” she shot back.
A corner of his mouth lifted. He finished the wrap, then stepped behind her and nudged her feet apart with
his shoe.
“Stance. Knees soft. Hips square.”
His hands settled on her shoulders, guiding them lower. She felt strength coiled under calm control.
“Punch,” he said.
She drove her fist forward. Itnded with a dull smack, pain blooming across her knuckles.
“Again,” he ordered.
She hit harder. He caught her wrist mid–recoil, thumb pressing the wrap. “Angle is off. Rotate here.” He adjusted her forearm, their bodies nearly aligned. She smelled clean sweat and something wild beneath it.
“You heal fast, but your knuckles are raw,” she murmured.
“Pain reminds me I am still choosing.” He released her and motioned to the fallen bags. “Those chose wrong.”
Emery’s pulse kicked. She turned back to the upright bag and punched until her arm ached.
Logan circled, watching every movement. “Lesson one,” he said, voice lower. “Do not let arger opponent decide distance. Close the gap on your terms.” He stepped in, crowding her against the canvas. “Like this.”
She did not retreat. “And if I want space?”
“Then take it.” He backed up a single step, challenging.
She shoved his chest. He did not budge. She tried again, this time he allowed it, sliding back with a rough
exhale.
“Better,” he said. “I am testing your foundations. Tomorrow, we start with making your body stronger and then… footwork.”
“Tomorrow?” She flexed her bruising knuckles. “We still have hours before dawn.”
Logan’s eyes swept over her, lingering. “Then we keep going.” He tossed her a second pair of wraps. “Left hand now.”
She caught them, breathing hard yet steady. “Fine.”
“Deal,” he said, moving to brace the next bag. His shoulders tensed, ready for the hit. Emery stepped forward, determination and something hotter coursing through her veins. She swung; the bag jolted, and Logan’s
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satisfied nod told her this fight–whatever it was–had only begun.
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Emery’s next jabnded cleaner. Logan steadied the bag with one hand and touched the back of her elbow
with the other.
“Follow through,” he said. “Put your hip behind it.”
She pivoted. He guided the motion, palm sliding from her elbow to her hip. Heat red where his fingers pressed.
“Again.”
She drove her fist forward. He caught her wrist, turned it outward, and stepped behind her so their bodies aligned. His chest brushed her shoulder de. She felt the hard line of his thigh against the back of her leg.
“Center of gravity,” he said, voice low near her ear. “Yours is here.”
He ttened his hand against her abdomen, just below the ribs. The contact sent a quick shiver across her skin.
“Keep it tight,” he added.
She exhaled through parted lips and punched once more. The bag rocked. Logan’s arms came around her from behind, trapping her fists between his forearms and the canvas.
“Now break the hold,” he instructed.
Emery bent her knees and twisted. He allowed the move but countered, spinning her until her back hit the bag and his forearm braced above her head. Their bodies were inches apart. Sweat dampened the cor of his T–shirt. Her pulse raced.
“This is close quarters,” he said. “You can knee, elbow, or head–butt.” His free hand skimmed down her outer thigh to position her leg. “Try a knee.”
She brought her knee up. He caught it against his hip, breath hitching, and held it there. The position lifted her slightly, pinning her between him and the bag.
“Effective,” he murmured. “But you telegraphed it.”
“Let me go,” she said, voice low.
“Make me.”
She pushed at his shoulders. He did not budge. Instead, he eased her leg down and pressed closer, forearm sliding from the bag to her waist. His fingers syed over the small of her back, drawing her against him.
Her hands ttened on his chest. She felt the thunder of his heartbeat through the thin cotton. Their lips hovered, a breath apart.
“We are training,” she managed.
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“Training requires pressure,” he said, eyes locked on hers. His hand traced up her spine, stopping just between her shoulder des. “Feel it.”
The tension coiled. She tilted her head, almost closing the gap, then twisted hard and slipped under his arm. Her back found open space while his palmnded on the bag where she had stood.
Logan turned, a slow smile forming. “Better.”
She caught her breath. “Again?”
He nodded. “Until dawn,” he said, stepping toward her with deliberate patience. “And after.”
Heat crawled across her skin as she raised her fists. He closed in, and the dance resumed, each contact sharper, closer, the air between them thick with the promise of a fight neither wanted to end.
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