Page 35 of Kill Feed

He circles me again, this time stopping at my right side. “Raise your arm a little higher,” he murmurs, his hand brushing my forearm as he corrects the angle. “If you’re too low, you’ll lose reach and power.” His fingers linger, then pause. Then his gaze drops to my hand.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, tapping his fingers lightly against the marks. “Looks like you already know how.”

Instinctively, I pull away, turning sharply to face him. Dante’s expression is unreadable, and I hate that. And with Marcos still leaning lazily on the ropes, I’m left feeling the pressure of an explanation.

He throws a look towards Marcos with a nod. The man lets out a casual huff, stretches his arms above his head, and hops out from under the ropes.

“I’m going to grab some water,” he calls, circling the ring. He bounces once more on his toes, then disappears out of sight.

Now it’s just me and Dante. The world narrows to canvas and ropes and the steady hum of the gym. I’m already filtering through possible explanations for something clean and plausible, like a training mishap or a bar fight started by the other party, that will make for a good excuse.

“It’s a fresh mark. Looks to be no older than a day or two, max,” Dante chimes, breaking my thought process.

“Yesterday,” I state, letting the word echo.

Dante nods. He moves closer, not the predatory step I feared, but close enough that the scent of him is distinct: earth and citrus with a hint of bergamot. He sets both hands on my shoulders, steady and firm, and his gaze pins mine. For a moment, he just studies my face like he’s cataloguing light and shadow.

Then he lifts one hand, cups my jaw between his thumb and fingers, and tilts my head so my profile is more exposed. His thumb traces the edge of my cheekbone.

“You’re either one hell of a fighter,” he says softly, “and in that case you should train me… or the person never saw it coming.”

There’s an almost casual danger in the way he says it. A dark curiosity rather than accusation.

“All of thee above,” I say nonchalantly. I watch the way his pupils dilate as I utter those words.

Dante releases my jaw and lets his hands slide to my back, palms flat as he adjusts my stance. He fits himself behind me and shifts my feet, aligns my hips, pressing into the small of my back. “Well,” he says, voice practical now, “at least learn how to throw a proper blow without wrecking your wrist.”

He demonstrates a short, fluid motion.

Pivot.

Shoulder.

Snap.

The correction is clinical, useful, and it tugs my focus away from the thudding in my chest. My body responds, mimicking the pivot, the way power comes from the legs and core, not just the arm. His hands are warm against my back, and I feel every fiber of his skin through my shirt.

He’s hot. There’s no fucking denying that. His deal? I still have no clue. And does this interaction turn me on?

Yes, yes, it fucking does.

He leans in until his mouth is near my ear. “What makes you angry enough to throw a punch like that?” His breath is hot against my skin, melting as he pulls away to round my side. He stops in front of me.

I don’t hesitate when I say, “Being forced to react.” But it’s a fraction of the truth.

I don’t like reacting. I like deciding. A punch is what happens when someone takes that choice away.

I glance down at my knuckles. Things are meant to move forward. When they don’t, force becomes a solution.

There’s a hint of satisfaction in Dante’s chocolate brown eyes before it disappears again. Evaporating and is replaced with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Interesting,” he iterates, tilting his head slightly, and my shoulders relax despite his intensity.

The corners of my mouth lift.

Being around him feels… efficient. Like standing next to a machine that’s already calibrated to the same settings I am. No extra noise. No corrective effort. I don’t have to translate myself into something palatable or slow my thinking down to keep pace with someone else’s reactions.

I don’t feel watched. Which is ironic, considering he watches everything I do.

Dante steps back and gives me the space to swing before saying, “Again.” And I throw a jab that lacks any power, focusing on the movement, and he watches the arc like a judge.