Page 168 of Modern Romance May 2026 Books 5-8
“I will need a sparring partner,” she said, tossing her hair back behind her shoulder. “I don’t suppose you scrounged up one of those.”
He studied her with those dark eyes. There was a spark of something that had her chest aching, and yet she couldn’t name it. Understand it. She certainly hadn’t hurt his feelings. This meant nothing to him. He had made it clearshemeant nothing to him beyond revenge and some pleasure in the bedroom.
“I can act as your sparring partner,” he said, with a slight curve of his mouth that made it seem like an offer for a lot more than sparring.
Still, she pretended to take him at face value, to protect herself in a moment of feeling off balance.
She eyed him skeptically. He had the body for it, even if the exquisite clothes didn’t make it look so in the moment. But she had felt every inch of that body, under her hands, over her skin. Yes, he could no doubt handle the simple act of boxing.
But he didn’t have her knowledge or skill.
“Are you worried that I might actually be able to hold my own?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Are youafraid, Ari?”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Many an arrogant man has received a jab to the face thinking he was better than a woman.”
“I have no doubts you are the better boxer,glikí mou, but I know how to hold my own.” He gestured toward the ring. “It is only practice. I have seen you pull punches in practice. What is the harm?”
“I pull those punches, yes, but they still land.”
“Then I’ll ask you not to break my nose. Or do I need to beg?”
For a moment, her brain fractured—from the insult of using him as a sparring partner to the idea of him begging for anything.
It brought to mind the way he’d knelt before her that first night. What he’d said about her belly button ring. That dangerous flicker of passion began to sputter to life when she’d told herself she wouldn’t go looking for this.
She had to be careful. Addiction to anything so good would be ruinous.
So she stepped away from him and pretended to survey the boxing ring. She considered her clothes. The travel set was casual, a little loose for actual boxing. But they weren’tboxing. They were… She wasn’t sure. One of them was trying to prove a point, probably. She just wasn’t fully surewho.
As long as she won, though, she didn’t have to worry about what kind of point. So she moved for the ring.
There was a shelf of gloves and wraps and punch mitts just outside it. Ari took her time selecting what she wanted, then climbed into the ring without looking at him again.
She walked across the mat, tested the give. Since she was wearing sandals, she tossed them off to the side. She turned to face him.
He’d also taken off his shoes. They stood facing each other from their separate corners, and Ari couldn’t seem to stop a laugh from bubbling out from her. “This is ridiculous.”
His mouth quirked, but he shrugged rather than agreed. “Humor me.”
He crossed to the center, so she did, too, then frowned when she saw that he’d chosen mitts over gloves.
“You should wear gloves, not just those pads. You can hit me back. I can take it.”
“No,” he said, with no further explanation. “Let’s just see if you can land one around me blocking with the mitts.”
Again, she rolled her eyes. Of course she could landone. He was bigger and just as strong, and he might be faster, though she wasn’t fully convinced of that. But herlifewas boxing. If she couldn’t land a punch on a random man—no matter how good of shape he was in—she shouldn’t be in a boxing ring.
She sighed. “Fine.” She started moving back and forth on the balls of her feet, enjoying the feel of the mat beneath her bare feet, the clean gloves on her hands. All so familiar.
Except facing a man with intense dark eyes and an expression she couldn’t read. She started easy. A jab, one at a time with a break between.
He blocked the pulled punches with his mitts, as she’d expected.
Slowly, over time, she worked up to sequences, still keeping her full power locked. She bobbed, she weaved, and she didn’t go for the blow. She could have. Many times. But she couldn’t seem to bring herself to do it. Even a pulled punch would hurt, could leave a mark.
He was always so perfectly put together. What would an imperfection do to that perfect face?
“Come on then,” he said, a flicker of irritation in him now. “Show me what you’re really made of.”
