Page 11 of The Encore’s Crown

“No!” I mutter out loud, furious. “I’m not touching myself over Kiri fucking Chhim." I point at the ceiling like God has been called to witness. "Absolutely not, not after what that asshole did!”

My heart pounds, while my body remains tragically unconvinced.

“Oh, you really drank dumb bitch juice at dinner instead of wine,” I mutter, glaring down at myself. “I am not doing this!”

The words echo uselessly in the quiet room. I fling myself back again, glaring at the ceiling, beyond annoyed with myself. I roll over, then scroll through the photos from dinner. The pretty plates and glossy table. A selfie where my cheekbones look immaculate and my eyes look like I haven’t been considering sexual masochism for the last forty minutes. I post a few with bright captions and adorable emojis, the digital version of a perfect smile. Look at me. So cute. Terribly busy. Completely unbothered.

Especially not by him. Not by the way his mouth tightened when I laughed at something Rafe said or the way he kept pretending not to watch me. Definitely not by the fact that every time his gaze dragged over me, my body lit up like a match struck in a dark room.

Kurwa!

I drop my phone onto the bed and lay there, breathing hard, annoyed enough to chew through the fancy marble foyer downstairs. Enough. If my body wants to be restless, I’ll give it something to do that doesn’t involve fantasizing about a bassist with commitment issues and tattoo-covered forearms sent directly from hell.

The hotel gym is twenty-four hours, because this place caters to people who don't sleep, people who fly across continents, people with so much money they don't have to live by the normal rules of society. Early mornings, late nights, it’s all the same when you’re busy and beautiful. I pull on the grey workout set I packed as a devious part of this plan. Yoga pants that hug every curve, a matching sports bra, grey trainers. I twist my hair up and tuck it under a grey baseball cap. In the mirror, I pause and look at myself, dressed down but still unmistakably me. I peel the under-eye masks from my face and toss them into the trash before leaning closer to inspect the results. Practical and fresh-faced, but still hot.

I smile and snap a quick mirror selfie before I can overthink it and consider posting it. The thought arrives that he'll die when he sees it, probably bite his fist in frustration over all the ways he'd love to get me out of this outfit. I smirk to myself, it's so petty and delicious. I click post. He can choke on it.

The elevator ride down is quiet, but my pulse isn’t. It keeps picking up, stupid and eager, like my body thinks this is some romantic movie instead of me taking preventative measures against losing my mind. When the doors open, I step into the gym with my chin lifted and my earbuds already in hand.

Heads turn immediately.

They always do, but tonight I enjoy it more than I should. Every glance feels like proof. Every flicker of attention from someone who isn't Kiri feels like a little twist of the knife. See? I want to tell the universe. I'm not sitting around wanting one emotionally unavailable man with pretty hands and a spine made of wet paper. Then I see him.

Kiri is at the free weights, grunting with effort, sweat slicking his skin, lifting like his life depends on it. His arms flex with every rep, tattoos fully on display, muscles tensing and releasing in a way that makes my traitorous brain light up all over again. For a split second, my steps falter.

I recover quickly, turning my head away, shoving my earbuds in and pretending my heart isn’t trying to punch its way out of my chest. I focus on the treadmill console, fingers tapping at the settings, my reflection in the mirrored wall carefully neutral. I came here with purpose. The purpose is not looking at or thinking about him. The purpose is becoming so physically exhausted that my body stops protesting.

I tap at the treadmill console, keeping my face blank. In the mirrored wall, I can see just enough of him to be punished by it. He lowers the weights with a heavy, frustrated exhale, and the sound slides straight down my spine.

Rude.

Then I feel it, his attention lifting. I don’t need to look to know the exact moment he sees me. It hits the air like a pressure change, like his heat behind my shoulder. Every nerve in my body has decided to be dramatic at once. I stare forward. The treadmill comes to life beneath my feet. I don't look back, but I know he’s watching. And the worst part, the humiliating part that makes me want to sprint until my lungs burn, is that I like it.

I like it so much I want to kill him for making me feel like this.

Chapter 6

Spot Me

Natalia

Ican see him trying not to look at me in the mirror as I run, his reflection flicking away every time my eyes drift close. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, changes stations, all very controlled and disciplined, very I am a mature adult man unaffected by the existence of yoga pants. It'd be more convincing if he wasn't trying so hard.

Watching him fight himself like that does something to me, it sparks a thought, a plan. Distant Kiri makes me want to peel the indifference off of him with my nails just to see what he’s hiding underneath. It's time to melt him with a little of my fire. We'll see how long he stays frozen.

I slow the treadmill, step off, and wipe my hands on my thighs casually, pretending I didn’t come down here already wound tight. I walk past him, close enough that I know he feels the breeze of it, even though he attempts to keep his eyes fixed on the cable machine. His attention snaps to me anyway. I feel it.

I head straight for the bench and start loading the bar with something heavier than I should probably attempt alone. It isn't exactly reckless enough to be truly stupid, but enough to require help, to make a point. Then I turn.

“Kiri?” I say, light and easy. “Are you okay to spot me?”

His hand stills on the cable attachment. At first, he does nothing. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just stands there with his face blank and his body still. Then he looks at me. His eyes go to the bar, then the plates, then my face. Practical and assessing, so condescendingly mature.

“That’s a lot of weight,” he says. He steadies his voice into a flat, controlled observation.

I lift an eyebrow. “I know how much I loaded.”

He wipes his hands on a towel and walks over, calmly. He moves like I asked him to pass the salt, not stand over me while I lie beneath a loaded bar.