Chapter 1: Private Training Session
The single bulb above the ring buzzed, a dying fly trapped in a cage of wire and glass. It cast a jaundiced light onto the canvas, a stained and sweat-salty square that smelled of old leather, ambition, and fear. This was her church. Her fucking sanctuary. And tonight, she had a very special worshipper.
Alexandra ‘Blackeye’ Blackwood leaned against the turnbuckle, the ropes groaning under her weight. A towel was draped over her neck, soaking up the sweat that rolled down the dense terrain of her muscles. Every cut, every defined ridge, was a map of her life’s work, inked over with the vibrant, sprawling stories of her tattoos—a phoenix on one shoulder, a cluster of roses and thorns winding around her bicep, a line of script in a language only she understood curling along her collarbone. She watched the gym’s only other occupant with a predator’s lazy focus.
Angel was trying to lace up her hand wraps. His slender fingers, usually so deft with pastel art pencils or the delicate buttons of his pink cardigans, fumbled with the long strips of white cloth.
“You’re winding it too tight over the thumb, bunny,” she said, her voice a low rasp that seemed to swallow the empty space of the gym. “Gonna cut off the circulation. You want my hand to go necrotic and fall off? Be a real mood-killer later.”
He jumped at the sound of her voice, his dark blue eyes wide. “Sorry! I’m sorry, Alex. I just… I want it to be right.” His own voice was a soft counterpoint to hers, a whisper of silk against sandpaper.
“It’s right if I say it’s right. Come here.” She uncurled a finger, beckoning him.
He padded over on bare feet, the worn canvas rough under his soles. He was a vision of pastel in the grim space, wearing soft, cream-colored lounge pants and a loose, blush-pink t-shirt that slipped off one pale shoulder. His waist-long, curly white hair was tied up in a messy, adorable bun, a few stray strands clinging to his flushed cheeks. He looked like a fairy who’d stumbled into a garage.
She held out her hand, and he carefully began again, his touch impossibly gentle. She could break every bone in his body with this hand. The knowledge was a dark, thrilling current in her gut. Instead, she let him minister to her.
“You’re trembling,” she observed, not unkindly.
“It’s cold,” he whispered, not meeting her eyes.
“Bullshit. The heat’s busted, but you’re not cold. You’re nervous.” She used her free hand to tilt his chin up. His skin was so soft. Like fucking rose petals. “Why? Scared of me?”
“N-no. Never of you.” He said it with such immediate, earnest conviction it almost stole her breath. “I just… I want to be useful. For you.”
A warm, possessive ache spread through her chest. “You are. This is useful. Now finish up, my champion’s knuckles need their armor.”
He bit his pink lower lip in concentration, his brow furrowed. She watched the play of emotions on his face—the anxiety, the determination, the sheer overwhelming cuteness of him trying to be serious. When he was done, she flexed her hand, the wraps a perfect, firm second skin.
“Good job. Now the other one.”
He repeated the process, gaining a little confidence. His fingers brushed the stark black ink of her forearm, tracing the lines without thinking. “This one’s new,” he murmured.
“Got it in Montreal. After the Leblanc fight.”
“It’s a… a honeycomb?”
“Yeah. With a little bee. Reminder to stay sweet,” she grinned, the expression wolfish, “and to sting like a motherfucker.”
He finished the final tuck and looked up at her, his big blue eyes searching her face. She saw the love there, pure and unguarded, and it did something to her it always did—it melted the iron around her ribs just a fraction. She cupped his cheek, her calloused thumb stroking the apple of his cheek. “My good boy.”
A blush exploded across his face, painting him from his forehead down to where his shirt collar hid his chest. He made a small, choked sound, looking utterly flustered. God, she lived for that sound.
“Okay, lesson time,” she said, pushing off the turnbuckle. The ropes vibrated. “You know the basic stance. Show me.”
Angel shuffled into a approximation of a boxing stance, his hands coming up. He looked less like a fighter and more like a kitten trying to ward off a sunbeam. It was endearing as hell.
“Feet wider. You’re not on a tightrope. You wanna be grounded. Solid.” She moved behind him, her body enveloping his. She placed her hands on his narrow hips, feeling the pronounced curve of his waist through the soft fabric. An hourglass made of silk and moonlight. She adjusted his stance with a gentle pressure of her thighs against his. “Right there. Feel that? That’s your base. Can’t knock you over if you’re planted.”
He was rigid in her arms, his breath coming in short little puffs. “I feel it.”
“Good.” Her voice dropped, her lips close to the shell of his ear. She didn’t miss the shiver that racked him. “Now, the jab. It’s not a punch. It’s a probe. A question. You’re asking with your left, and listening for the answer.” She took his wrapped left hand in hers, extending his arm slowly. “Snap it out. Like you’re flicking water off your fingers. From the shoulder. Don’t push it.”
He tried, his arm moving with a graceful but weak motion.
“Again. Faster. Snap.”
He did it again, a little better. She guided him through a few more, her front pressed against his back, her chin resting on his shoulder. He was warming up, a fine sheen of sweat beginning to glimmer at his temples.
“Okay, now… what happens if someone gets past your jab?” she murmured, her hand sliding from his hip around to his lower abdomen, pulling him back tighter against her. He was all lean lines and gentle slopes against the hard planes of her body. “If they’re in close, like this?”
“I… I don’t know,” he breathed.
“You protect yourself. You clinch.” Her arms wrapped fully around him, one hand splayed across his stomach, the other coming up to cradle the back of his head. She held him snug, immovably, against her. He went pliant, a soft sigh escaping him. “You tie them up. You let them feel your weight, your strength. You steal their space, their breath, their will. You make this,” she tightened her hold, “their whole world.”
She could feel his heart hammering against her forearm. “Alex…” he whined, a sweet, helpless sound.
“What, bunny? Using your words.” She nuzzled into the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him—cotton candy shampoo and innocent sweat.
“This isn’t… boxing.”
“Sure it is. The most important part. The part where you decide if you’re going to destroy someone or,” she spun him in her arms, pinning him gently against the ropes, “if you’re going to do something else with them.”
His back met the taut ropes, his white hair fanning out against them. He was cornered, caged by her body and the ring’s perimeter. His eyes were huge, his lips slightly parted. She leaned in, her hands coming up to frame his face, her thumbs tracing the delicate arch of his cheekbones.
“You’re so fucking pretty when you’re flustered,” she whispered, her voice gravel and heat. “Like a whole goddamn sunrise happening right here on your skin.”
“Alex, please,” he whispered, the plea vague but drenched in wanting.
“Please what? Use your words, Angel. Tell me what you want. You think I just guess in the ring? I read my opponents. I see every flinch, every tell. Right now, your tell is that you’re about two seconds from melting into a puddle right here on my canvas.” She brushed her lips against his, not quite a kiss, just a promise. “Tell me.”
He swallowed, gathering his courage. His small hands came up to rest tentatively on her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her tank top. “I want… I want you to kiss me.”
“That’s my boy.” She closed the distance.
The kiss was a study in contrast. Her mouth was demanding, claiming, all tongue and teeth and dominant pressure. His was yielding, sweet, letting her lead but responding with a growing, desperate fervor. She tasted the mint of his toothpaste and the underlying, unique flavor that was just him. One of her hands slid from his face down the column of his throat, over the rapid flutter of his pulse, coming to rest possessively on his chest. He whimpered into her mouth, a sound that went straight to her core.
She broke the kiss, both of them breathing heavily. She kept him pinned, leaning her forehead against his. “See? Clinch work. Vital.” Her voice was even rougher now, frayed at the edges.
“You’re terrible,” he gasped, but he was pressing closer, not trying to escape.
“I’m a world champion, baby. Terrible is my job description.” She ducked her head, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down the sensitive cord of his throat. He tipped his head back, granting her access with a soft, surrendering moan. “And my other job,” she murmured against his skin, her hands sliding down to grip his thighs, “is taking care of what’s mine.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, she hoisted him up. He yelped, his legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, his arms clinging to her neck. She carried him the few steps to the center of the ring, the sacred, stained spot where she’d dropped contenders and claimed titles. She didn’t lay him down so much as lower herself over him, one knee on either side of his hips, caging him beneath her.
The canvas was rough against his back. The bulb flickered overhead, casting jumping shadows across his stunned, blissful face. She looked down at him, her black eyes drinking in the sight: his white hair splayed like a halo, his blush-pink shirt rucked up, revealing a sliver of his pale, smooth stomach, his eyes dark with want and trust.
“This,” she said, her voice dropping to a raw, intimate rasp that vibrated in the hollow space between them, “this is my favorite view. Better than any belt, any trophy, any fucking headline.” She leaned down, bracing herself on her hands beside his head. “You. Under me. In my ring.”
“Your ring,” he echoed, breathless.
“Damn right.” She lowered her mouth to his ear, her next words a filthy, explicit promise of exactly what she intended to do to him, here on the sweat-stained canvas, with the smell of leather and their shared breath thick in the air. The language was crude, graphic, brutally honest—a champion’s game plan for ravishment.
Angel’s entire body flushed a deep, beautiful crimson. He let out a shuddering gasp, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. “Alex! You can’t just… say things like that!”
“Why not? It’s the truth. I’m gonna make you forget your own name. I’m gonna make you scream mine so loud the ghosts of all the guys I knocked out in this place are gonna wake up and be jealous.” She nipped at his earlobe. “Unless you want me to stop.”
His head shook frantically against her shoulder. His hold on her tightened.
“Didn’t think so.” She began her campaign, her mouth mapping his throat, her hands sliding under his shirt to explore the trembling, silken skin of his waist and ribs. He was so sensitive, every touch, every whispered profanity eliciting a jolt, a gasp, a sweet, pleading noise. She worshipped him with a rough tenderness, her touch both claiming and reverent. This was her victory lap. Her true prize.
The world outside—the cold gym, the busted heater, the city’s noise—ceased to exist. There was only the creak of the ropes, the slick sound of skin on skin, the ragged symphony of their breathing, and her low, continuous stream of praise and filth in his ear.
Just as she had him trembling on a knife’s edge, his cries growing less inhibited, the sound of a heavy metal door clanging open echoed through the gym.
Footsteps. Heavy, booted ones.
Alex’s head snapped up, her body going from lover to protector in a nanosecond. She shifted, pulling Angel’s shirt down and partly shielding him with her own body, turning a fierce, unwelcoming glare toward the entrance.
A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway to the main gym floor, backlit by the faint emergency lights. Big. Broad. Male.
“Blackwood?” a gruff, unfamiliar voice called out. “That you? Lights are on. We got a problem.”
Angel froze beneath her, fear instantly replacing passion in his eyes. Alex didn’t move off him, but she raised herself up on one arm, her other hand coming to rest reassuringly on Angel’s chest, feeling the frantic rabbit-kick of his heart.
“The problem,” she called back, her voice not the one she’d used with Angel, but the one that had sent grown men backing into corners—cold, flat, and dangerous, “is you’re in my gym uninvited. And you’re interrupting me.”
The figure took a step forward, the light from the ring finally catching him. He was a slab of a man, with a shaved head and a thick neck. He wore a tracksuit, but it didn’t hide the fighter’s build. He wasn’t a fan. He was trouble.
“Needed to find you,” the man said, his eyes flicking from Alex to the delicate form pinned beneath her. A slow, unpleasant smirk spread across his face. “Didn’t mean to break up the… training session.”
Alex felt Angel shrink under her touch. She saw the smirk. And in that instant, the warm, possessive ache in her chest turned to glacial, murderous rage.
“You’ve got five seconds to tell me what you want,” she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper that carried a terrifying weight. “And then you’ve got two to get the fuck out of my sight before I reconsider my no-murder-in-the-home-gym policy.”
The man’s smirk faded. He held up his hands, a placating gesture that wasn’t sincere. “Message from a mutual friend. He needs to talk. About a business proposition.”
“I’m retired from that business.”
“He says you’ll want to hear this one. It’s about… future security.” The man’s eyes drifted to Angel again, the implication clear. For you and yours.
Alex didn’t flinch. She held the man’s gaze, the air in the gym crackling with a new, dangerous tension. Beneath her, Angel had gone perfectly still, his breathing shallow. The intimate world of sweat and whispers had shattered, replaced by the chill of a threat.
“Get out,” Alex said, the finality in the words like a cell door slamming shut. “Tell your ‘friend’ if he has something to say, he can say it to my face. Not through some hired muscle who doesn’t know when he’s walking into a lion’s den.”
The man stared a moment longer, then gave a curt nod, the message delivered. He turned and left, his footsteps fading, the heavy door clanging shut with a sound that echoed like a verdict.
Silence rushed back in, but it was different now. It was charged, brittle.
Alex looked down at Angel. The blissful haze was gone from his eyes, replaced by a shimmer of anxiety. “Alex?” he whispered, the word fragile.
She leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to his forehead. It was a seal. A promise. “It’s nothing, bunny,” she murmured against his skin, her voice forcing itself back to a semblance of calm. “Just some old garbage that needs taking out.”
But her eyes, as she looked over his head toward the now-empty doorway, were the eyes of Blackeye Blackwood, world champion. They were hard, calculating, and utterly cold. The ring beneath them no longer felt like a sanctuary. It felt like the calm before a storm, and she had everything she’d ever wanted lying vulnerable in the center of it.