by Celia Crown
His logic is somewhat correct; Cypher Security provides protection, and one could argue that emotional pain is considered harmful to the client.
“The fewer hits he receives, the greater your success in protecting him.” My father grins wider.
I hate it when he gets too literal, but he does have a point.
“Yeah?” he quips as his brows rock with eagerness. “There is no better experience for Reese than to get practice in freestyle fighting.”
“Can you elaborate?” I ask dreadfully.
I truly hope he is not serious about having me train a man who does not need my guidance. He fights better than some of the bodyguards at Cypher. He is limited by the rules in how much damage he can do.
On the other hand, Cypher employees are only looking for the kill shot.
“What do you mean?” my father asks, more confused than I have seen him in a while.
“In Cypher’s training room or while on the job?” I clarify.
The man shrugs. “No difference.”
“It’s a matter of breaking bones.” I cock my head while my father peers at Reese.
I follow his line of sight, and the twinkle of excitement in the swirling amber eyes has already answered my question. I am outnumbered and will not have a choice if Reese asks for my help.
Not because I am not capable of saying “no” to him, but because he is my client. And I am required to do everything he tells me to.
Frankly, I don’t know if I could say “no” voluntarily. I do not want to see the disappointment in his eyes.
This contract is a mess.
“Use your judgment, dear daughter,” he chirps happily, and waves goodbye before rushing out of the training room.
Other people in the training room have stopped working their equipment, and their gazes speak volumes.
“How do you learn best?” I ask as I survey the area.
We’re in our designated area, spacious enough to do his training but not to the point of garnering unwanted jealousy.
The whole floor is divided into sections, and athletes with matches are prioritized.
No one here cares about stealing training tips or copying training regimens. Each regimen is structured around the individual, and it is common sense to stick with the plan customized for each athlete’s needs.
“Experience,” he says with his inked hand holding the towel around his neck.
I nod and take a step back from him. His hand slips from the dip of my spine when the soles of my feet hit the training mat. It is blue and cushioned, but it has a faint odor of sweat.
That smell is coming from everywhere, and I hate it. It is making me sick with worry that particles of someone’s sweat are going into my lungs.
After this, I am going to shower and cleanse my lungs with fresh air.
“Alright,” I remark as I roll up the thin sleeves of my shirt. “Don’t be afraid to hurt me, I will adjust to you.”
A lot of men think it’s humiliating to have a woman teach them something that has been inherently male for millions of years.
Fighting and protecting is a man’s duty while a woman must care and nurture.
People in high-level positions tend to be surprised when I get assigned to them.
It is the twentieth century, but that ancient notion is still ingrained in their heads.
Reese doesn’t take offense to that; he is more interested in learning something new than worrying about getting his masculinity fractured by me.
I knew he was different.
I would never be interested in a man who does not see me as an equal.
He starts strong, but he’s overcompensating as he tests the waters. Reese curls his fingers into fists, the action igniting a gentle purring in my chest as his amber eyes narrow in concentration.
His swings are calculated as I dodge the arm flying by the side of my face. The air cuts into my cheek with the boiling heat of his sharply defined muscles.
I break through his defensive strategy with a daring step between his legs. A swift block of his arm keeps that limb away from me. Then I let his other hand get close to my ribs.
It is a close call as I block a punch that could have bruised cracked my ribs. His punch is powerful as the bone in my forearm throbs angrily, and he is not done yet.
He kicks my leg, bringing my knees down to the blue mat as he strategically puts his weight on top of me.
Not caring if I am following the rules of boxing, my instinct is to crush this man. I can’t allow him to dominate me from above with his strength, so I counter by being agile and quick on my feet.
I bring my knee up to his hard stomach and watch the shock sparkle in his amber eyes. That is when he loses the match. My throbbing forearm meets his trachea and rams the concentrated power into his throat.
Having an eccentric team of doctors at Cypher comes with its benefits and disadvantages. They explain things in such detail that employees end up learning something about human anatomy.
I wrap my thighs around his wide waist and rub the soft skin on his grooved hips as I lift my hips. He tips over with a grunt and refuses to stay down when he jerks back up. I straddle his waist and wrap my fingers around his thick neck. The dryness of my palms creates the perfect friction for adhering my hand to his sweaty neck.
He moves, and it tugs the skin with him.
We’re back to the déjà vu position; me on top of him with a knee putting pressure on the underside of his arm and a hand around his other wrist while I glare down at him.
“I thought you would have learned,” I point out with a small grin.
He returns the grin as the wildness in his swirling golden eyes glimmers wickedly.
“I did learn, Ezra,” he snarls.
He flips me over onto the mat just like I had done to him, but he doesn’t care about the risk of forcing his neck into my hand to get an advantage. I could have broken his hyoid bone or, at the very least, bruised the deep tissue in his neck.
It is his chance to straddle and choke me with his big hand around my neck. My arms are shorter than his, so I don’t even bother to attack him on the arms.
Reese is strong and calculating as his grip tries to cut off my oxygen. I claw at his tightening fingers as the manic elation in his eyes turns vile, but I’m not afraid.
This is what I want, a reckless man desperate to conquer his enemy.
Reese lets go, and air rushes into my expanding lungs.
I like this adrenaline kick; it is almost as good as the sparring sessions back at Cypher’s headquarter. Nonetheless, Reese had stopped, and not a single soul at Cypher would have let go of the chance to claim victory.
Some sessions can be bloody and violent, but that is the thrill everyone looks forward to.
The standards are higher, morals are lower, and it is only fun when pain is the true goal.
Mistakes will not stick unless reinforced by a deafening defeat.
I swear someone had dubbed the sparring sessions an underground fight club.
I chuckle as I inhale deeply. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to kill me.”
“I’m doing what you taught me.” He stands and yanks me by the elbow before I can build up enough oxygen.
I grunt and graze a hand on my neck; the imprint of his fingers is noticeable by the heat.
“I would have been cited with multiple warnings,” he notes with a blissful grin.
“Yet,” I assess, “You still did it.”
“Adaptation,” he concedes as his tongue swipes his bottom lip. “You adapt to me, and I do the same with you. It’s how you defeat your opponent.”
I tilt my head as silence settles in the gym, my eyes unhurriedly scanning the floor. Many had stopped their training to watch my bout with Reese.
“We’ll call it a day,” I suggest as I step off the mat.
He follows me with a hum. “Did I hurt you badly?”
“A wise man once told me ‘you will never be a winner until
your enemy’s life leaves by your hand.’”
Reese scoffs as he chugs down his water. “That sounds like bad advice.”
“It is,” I grumble as I remember who had said that to me. “My boss is someone who doesn’t like loose ends. It makes sense that he tells us to use whatever means necessary, but he does not want us to pile up the bodies either. Honestly, no one knows what he wants.”
“As in killing your enemy,” he probes with a pause.
“Justified self-defense,” I promptly correct him. “We try to avoid it whenever possible. But when the situation calls for it, we can justify our actions to both ourselves and the law.”
“Have you killed anyone?” he asks, a cautious hint trickling into his voice.
“Are you afraid I will jeopardize your chances in the final match?” I question back.
“Have you?” he insists.
I smile and nod.
Reese puts down the water bottle. “How many?”
I don’t think he’s maliciously digging into my past. He is more curious than anything, and I understand why.
“Those are sealed records, Reese,” I reckon. “You will have to take that up with my boss.”
He falls quiet and regards me, but I reassure him by patting his chest through the rough fabric of his shirt. His heart pounds under my palm as I give him one last pat.
“I would never do anything to jeopardize your career.” I retort, “Just like you will not put my job at risk. My boss is a very frightening man; his glare alone can kill you.”
Reese smiles and gathers his things to pack them away. “I want to meet your boss.”
“His employees don’t want to see him every day, but you want to meet him?” I ask with a hazed blink of my eyes.
“You look up to him.” He cups my cheek and strokes it briefly before dropping his hand.
“It’s hard not to,” I grimace. “He’s a behemoth.”
I know what he means. My boss is a force to be reckoned with and has earned that respect and reputation.
“I will meet you out there for lunch?” I suggest as a trace of hunger swooshes in my stomach.
Breakfast was a couple of hours ago, and Reese must be starving after the rigorous training my Dad just put him through.
“Don’t take too long,” he teases with a pinch of my cheek.
I blink and put a hand on my chest as if wounded. “I would never make a client wait for me.”
An emotion crosses his eyes too quickly for me to read it, but he does give a clue.
“You are making me wait.”
Ah, I remember the deal we discussed the other night. I smile and merely stand in silence as he scowls at me. But he is starting to understand my frivolous teasing.
“You’re mine,” he growls, a voice of crushed velvet and fractured greed.
“Not yet,” I point out. “You haven’t proven that you can provide for me.”
I don’t need him to do that, but any motivation for him to fight better will benefit everyone. When he wins, it will be the one hundred-million-dollar prize in his bank account plus many endorsements.
I might even get a bonus when the contract ends.
“Keep your promise, Ezra, and I’ll keep my end of the deal.”
“I won’t disappoint you, Mr. Reese.”
Chapter Six
Reese
Ezra is resourceful; she can transition naturally to fit any scene that requires her aid.
The conference with Stein is one of them.
Given a choice, I would never be anywhere near that foul man. I don’t have a choice because it has been planned to garner attention from the whole world. Stein wants everyone to tune in for the match taking place one week from now.
I am being forced to wear a suit. I hate it, my skin already itches from the confinement as I fix my tie.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have, yezhik,” the coach coos when Ezra steps out of her room.
The gorgeous dress fits her body like a second skin, and her tiny ankles are strapped in by a pair of thin heels. Her thigh peeks out the slit in the dress, and her round tits bounce under its thin material.
Her hair has been swiped to the side, exposing her tantalizing back. The dress exposes the dip of her spine.
“It’s not for you, Dad,” she quips as she holds the bouquet of familiar flowers.
I recall they are the ones from my room. I don’t have the chance to ask about them when she turns her attention to me; the gorgeous smile on her face steals my breath.
And it has nothing to do with the tight collar around my neck.
“Very handsome, sir,” she praises.
“Very beautiful, miss,” I admire as she smiles.
“I’m handsome too,” her father snarks and grumbles under his breath.
“A bit pungent,” Ezra notes with a wrinkle of her nose.
My hand finds its place on her back as I trace the soft skin to steer her towards the elevator. I have taken great pleasure in knowing she does not mind it when I touch her.
She always avoids any chance of being grazed by someone else.
I am special to her.
Good, I hiss in my thoughts.
Ezra is mine; I will not let her be taken away. Not when I know there are men at boxing matches who take good care of their appearance.
I have strayed away from trying to keep up with appearances in social situations. I have been told I am a rugged man who talks with his hands.
“It’s a new cologne I’m trying.” The coach presses the button for the ground floor where the conference is being held.
Ezra lifts her head and watches the coach sniff his arm with a smile. The flowers are colorful, but my attention is on her as she reminds me of a tiny fairy in a bed of flowers.
“What are you doing with the flowers,” I manage to ask when the thought comes back to me.
She purses her pink lips. “They’re beautiful; it’d be a shame not to share them with the public.”
Confusion hits me, but I do not know where that emotion is coming from since her entire statement makes no sense.
A lot of things Ezra does are confusing. I have no complaints about it, it just makes my interest in her more intense.
Learning about her is like peeling away the layers of an onion.
The peeling I would like to do includes slipping that seductive dress off her lithe body.
“The press conference includes twenty minutes of speaking; ten from each side and then the last ten minutes are for questions,” the coach mentions as he scrolls through his phone.
That is fine with me. I have had conferences that last longer than thirty minutes. I wonder if Ezra is comfortable with being in front of cameras and if she is prepared to be questioned under scrutiny.
Boxing has a stigma that no one talks about much; boxers are supposed to belong to everyone. Like celebrities in Eastern countries, there can be an extreme backlash if romance rumors surface.
I am not well-versed in that area, so I don’t know how true it is. I have seen a lot of athletes fool around with women, and nothing severe happens. But I did not care about romance at all until I met Ezra.
“Remember, the other side is going to instigate something. Don’t fall for it,” the coach warns dutifully.
I nod and follow Ezra out of the elevator as we head down the hall to the conference room.
Ezra goes in first, the double door entrance meant for her stunning body as heads are turned with cameras snapping pictures.
We are the first team here to greet the reporters in their chairs, but Ezra is focused on finding flaws in the security details. Her eyes narrow dangerously at the men in suits standing by the door we came in as well as at the other entrance by the stage.
It is well-known that fans will do whatever it takes to be close to someone they support. In some extreme cases, they think they are entitled to touch their idols without permission.
Our names are seen on tags sitting on the table, showing the seating arra
ngement. I’m flanked by the coach and Ezra; she is closest to the former boxing champion. His name is just “Peters” on the name card.
Instead of “Sokolov” for each of my companions, Ezra has just her first name on the tag while the coach has just their last name on his tag.
It does not take long for the other side of the table to be filled. Coach stands up and goes to shake Peters’ hand, hard to tell if their friendliness is genuine. As if that wasn’t enough of a distraction, my rival Stein has been trying to get Ezra’s attention with a whistle.
My Ezra does not flinch as she stares ahead. Her eyes turn towards me only when I lay a hot hand on her exposed thigh after she crossed her legs.
The amount of exposed skin is not what I wanted her to do. But she is comfortable with it, so I don’t have a problem either.
It’s the other man I don’t trust with that leering grin on his face as he drops his gaze to my possessive hand on her thigh.
Ezra gazes at the flowers she had set on the table and scans the crowd of reporters. One of the facility’s cameramen was set up in the center aisle and holds the video camera to film the conference.
The conference begins, and it is the responsibility of the coaches to speak. I have no interest in listening to them when I have a better way of entertaining myself.
Her thigh is too soft and too tempting for me to avoid rubbing my fingers on her skin.
I was so focused on her that I didn’t realize it was time for the reporters to ask questions about the fight between Stein and me.
Stein’s fans think his background growing up with violence and being a juvenile offender gives him an advantage.
They may be right; I can’t deny he has skills that could only have been learned from those experiences. The media often make the comparison of him being a street kid and me being an Ivy League graduate.
Nevertheless, he does not have Ezra Sokolov.
This woman deals with violence for a living. Our sparring sessions and her help with my training have taught me valuable lessons. My body has now become a well-oiled machine.
During a match, I must be alert and plan my strategy while also spontaneously changing my tactics.
