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On the surface, he’s still cool blue fire. Pride, passion. Those are two things I always see when our gazes lock.
But there’s more, today. A solid sort of determination I’ve never seen him turn on me—only for me.
It’s there now, though. Cold and steely behind the cornflower flames.
And somehow, I know exactly what he wants me to do. “Avery,” I start, voice shaking. “I—I don’t think I can…”
Fight.
I don’t think I can fight. Because every time I’ve ever tried, I learned it was better not to.
But certainty flexes over his face. “Try.”
The word, his tone, his eyes—it’s a command.
Only, is it? Because there’s something—deep down in the invisible cord between us—that makes me think this is the closest I’ll ever see him come to begging.
I feel light-headed as I nod. He wastes no time, bending to pluck two shiny black boxing gloves from the ground. He tucks one under his arm while he reaches for my hand, sliding the second glove onto it and strapping me in tightly.
The nylon strap chafes my wrist, the padded material weighing my hand down. It instantly sinks to my side while he straps on the second one, pausing to lovingly brush his thumb over my pulse. The second he lets me go, my left hand drops to join my right, dangling uselessly.
Avery drops back, peeling his shirt off and tossing it away. The spotlights angled onto the ring illuminate every dip and hollow on his muscled form, casting shadows under his cut collarbones, the ladder of his abdomen, and his bulging pecs.
Black ink swirls and curves. Skulls, roses, crosses, crowns. My favorite is the monarch butterfly branded right at the top of his sternum; its wings spread under each clavicle.
He must have gotten some new ones because there are two white band-aids plastered on either side of his chest. And Jonah once joked that the only injuries Avery bandages are the ones that come with ink.
Normally, I might ask him, but my throat feels as tight and dry as it did the night they found me. When I open my mouth, I feel like I’ll choke on my tongue.
Avery slinks into a fighting stance that looks every bit as natural on him as standing normally. He holds up his own fists, which now have red gloves on them, demonstrating how to pose.
He tosses me a tilt of his head and another cocky grin. “Put 'em up.”
I try to swallow, but it hurts. Wincing, I shake my head, stepping back.
Avery’s eyes glint dangerously. “Serena.”
He never calls me that. Not unless something is wrong. Fear squeezes my throat as I shake my head harder. The two french braids holding my hair back fly around my shoulders.
He takes a step, closing in. “I’m not just fucking around here,” he mutters, scowling at me. “I want you to learn this. Put your fists up.”
I flinch, forcing a raspy word out of my sticky gullet. “Why?”
Fervor shines his gaze, filling all of his features. “Because nothing scares me, Serena. Nothing. But every time I take your clothes off and I see those scars, I can’t fucking breathe.”
My whole body trembles as he steps into me, putting us chest-to-middle as he holds my eyes. “Because if anyone ever tries to hurt you again and I’m not there,” he growls, “I need to know you’re going to fight.”
He falls away again, glaring at me as he lifts his hands. “If there’s even a chance I won’t be there to defend you, then I’m going to make sure you know how to defend yourself. Now, put your fists up.”
It’s the only time he’s ever barked at me. Another order—but his gaze doesn’t match it at all.
He really is begging me. He needs this. My safety. His peace of mind.
And I’m starting to suspect that I need him.
So I put up my fists.
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