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He steps closer, his movements calm and deliberate. "I didn't realize you were so skilled."
I roll my eyes, turning back to the punching bag. He calls whacking the shit out of a punching bag skilled? “Yeah, honey, there's a lot you don't know about me."
He doesn't leave, instead moving to a nearby weight bench. Out of the corner of my eye, he pops a few weights on a bar that likely equal my entire body weight. Shocker.
For a moment, we work out in silence, each lost in our thoughts. Despite myself, I can't help but glance at him. His movements are fluid and precise, his form textbook perfect—a testament to his own training and discipline. He’s disciplined as fuck, and that’s kind of a turn-on to a woman like me.
After a while, I stop, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Why are you here, Lev? Are you trying to keep an eye on me?"
He sets the weights down, wiping his hands with a towel. “It’s not all about you, beautiful.” He winks at me.
Is he… flirting?
“I’m here for the same reason you are. Or maybe I just needed a distraction."
I narrow my eyes, skeptical. "From what?"
He hesitates, then looks at me, his expression unexpectedly open. He looks away and doesn’t answer at first. I wait. Finally, he shrugs a shoulder. "From everything.” He lifts the bar again.
I don't know why, but his honesty catches me off guard. For a moment, I see the man behind the ruthless exterior and the weight of his burdens. It's a fleeting glimpse, but it's enough to stir something within me.
"You're not the only one with burdens," I say quietly. "We all have our own battles."
He nods as if acknowledging my words. "I know. And sometimes, it's easier to forget them for a while."
We fall into a comfortable silence. Tension ebbs away like the passing of a rainstorm. I start to understand that beneath our mutual animosity, we have a few things in common—pain, responsibility, and a drive to survive.
Today is core day, but who’s keeping track. I’m sore, but that doesn’t stop me from hitting planks and sit-ups with gusto. We don’t talk.
Finally, I want a shower and a proper breakfast, so I head to the door.
As I go to leave, Lev calls out, “Isabella.”
I turn, waiting.
“You're not alone in this,” he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it. “Remember that.”
I don't respond, but his words linger as I walk away. For the first time, I wonder if there's a way through this mess where we might find a sliver of understanding. A sort of truce.
I mean, we’re fucking getting married.
“I need some clothes. And… things,” I tell him.
“Make a list,” he says, in between bicep curls. I watch the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the carved muscles in his arms. I swallow.
“Then what?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
I frown. “How long will you treat me like your prisoner? Even if I do marry you?”
He drops the weight to the floor and draws himself to his full height, his hands anchored on his hips. “As long as it fucking takes. Forever if I have to.”
I stifle a growl.
He lifts a ridiculous amount of weight and starts bench pressing.
Show-off.
