Page 74 of Anton

ANTON

The next day, I’m in Konstantin’s basement gym, sparring with my brothers like usual. We rotate houses, but no one ever suggests mine. I wonder why. Probably my sunny disposition.

Kirill stands across from me on the mats, rolling his shoulders. Aleksei and Konstantin are already sparring a few feet away, the sound of gloves hitting flesh echoing through the basement.

Usually, fighting clears my head. But not today, because Thora fucking Whitlock keeps infiltrating my headspace with that pitied look of hers.

Kirill’s glove taps against mine, pulling me back into the room. “You awake, brother?”

I turn to him fully, my mouth tipping up. “Want me to show you how awake I am?”

His grin widens, and then he comes at me. I block his first strike and return one to his ribs, but my timing is off by a fraction and he manages to pull back before catching me across the jaw. The impact snaps my head to the side, pain blooming through my mouth until I taste blood.

A laugh breaks out of me. I enjoy the pain, because pain makes sense. It’s everything else that doesn’t.

Like how Thora curled around me and fell asleep in my arms, as though I was safe.

What the hell is wrong with her? I’m the last person she should feel safe around.

Kirill lowers his fists, studying me. “What’s going on? You are off your game today.”

I crack my neck, muscles tensing. The fact that people are starting to notice isn’t good.

I wipe blood from my mouth with the back of my glove while he watches me too closely, and I need him to stop. My fist comes flying at him, and he blocks the first strike, but not the second. The punch lands heavy against his ribs, and when he comes in close, I drive my shoulder into him and hook my leg behind his, taking him down so hard the mat vibrates beneath us.

He grunts while I stay over him.

“Am I off my game now, bratik?”

Kirill stares up at me for a long second before a grin breaks through. “Look at that. He’s back.”

Then he reaches up and ruffles my hair just to piss me off.

My eyes narrow. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You want to fight?” He pushes himself onto one elbow, chuckling under his breath. “Fine. We’ll fight.”

I roll my shoulders and jump to my feet. “Finally. Something useful out of your mouth.”

Across the gym, Aleksei glances over, while Konstantin barely breaks focus, dodging one of Aleksei’s strikes and driving a quick punch into his side.

“Try not to bleed all over my mats,” Konstantin mutters.

“Your mats are ugly,” Aleksei says just as Konstantin catches him in the shoulder with a clean hit before Aleksei returns the favor.

Kirill comes at me again, faster now, until we fall into a rhythm. We trade back-to-back punches until sweat slides down my spine and my lungs start pulling harder.

For a while, it works. I forget her. Then Kirill shoves me back, and she’s there again, her hand tracing my scars.

I hit him harder, trying to block it out. He grunts and shoves me off, chuckling again. We keep going until we are both exhausted, sweat dripping down our foreheads.

When Konstantin and Aleksei finish, they wipe their faces, conversation starting about business, the Whitlocks, and a shipment of new ammo that’s been delayed yet again. But their voices turn into background noise, slipping further away.

While they’re distracted, I reach into my duffel for my phone and move away, just enough so none of them can see the screen. Then I open the photo I took of her sleeping beside me. I stare at it for a while before I begin to text her, needing to speak to her.

Anton

Hey.