The Midnight Gym

POV: Malia

The gym inside the west wing of the estate smelled of old leather, cold steel, and the faint, bitter tang of rubber flooring. At twelve-thirty in the morning, the rest of the compound was wrapped in a suffocating silence, but my head was too loud for sleep.

I hit the heavy bag again.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The leather swung backward, groaning under the chain anchor hooked into the exposed iron ceiling beam. Sweat trickled down the valley of my spine, soaking the band of my sports bra and making the black wraps around my knuckles feel damp and heavy. My shoulders burned, but I didn't stop. If I stopped, the quiet would let in the thoughts I’d been running from all day: the secrets, the unanswered questions, and the way Jarrah had looked at me during dinner like he was deciding whether to protect me or dismantle me piece by piece.

Crack.

"Your wrist is dropping on the left hook," a low voice echoed from the shadows near the doorway. "You're leaving your jaw wide open."

I froze, the heavy bag swinging back and thumping heavily against my chest. I caught it, my hands gripping the rough leather as my breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps.

Jarrah stepped out from the dim perimeter light into the dull amber glow of the central mat.

He had stripped off his usual tailored jacket, wearing only a faded black tank top and dark athletic pants. His dark hair was slightly damp at the temples, sticking to his forehead, and the thick, jagged scar running up his left forearm looked darker in the low light. He walked with that infuriating, predatory grace, loose-limbed, effortless, and entirely aware of the space he occupied.

"I wasn't asking for a critique," I said, wiping a line of sweat from my temple with the back of my forearm. "Some of us use training to burn off anger, not to give lectures."

"Anger makes you careless, Malia," Jarrah murmured, stopping at the edge of the blue padded mat. He tilted his head, his dark eyes scanning the flush on my skin, the ragged rise and fall of my ribs, and the tension locked in my shoulders. "And in this house, carelessness gets you killed."

"Then it's a good thing you're not my coach." I turned back to the bag, lifting my hands into a guard position. "Go back to sleep, Jarrah."

Instead of turning toward the exit, I heard the soft, deliberate sound of his bare feet against the mat as he moved closer.

"Take off the wraps," he said quietly.

I turned around, narrowing my eyes. "What?"

"If you're going to punch something until your knuckles bleed, punch someone who can hit back." Jarrah raised his hands, casually flexing his fingers. "Five minutes. No weapons, no tricks. Just the mat."

My pulse did a strange, dangerous flip in my chest. A rational voice in the back of my mind told me to walk away. Jarrah was bigger, stronger, and trained in a dozen ways to end a life before the other person knew the fight had started. But the air between us felt charged with an electric, volatile energy that had been building for weeks, waiting for a single spark to detonate.

"Five minutes," I agreed, unravelling the cloth wraps from my left hand with quick, aggressive pulls. "Don't hold back just because you think you're going to hurt my feelings."

"I never hold back," he replied, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a dark, unspoken promise.

I let the cloth fall to the floorboards and stepped onto the center of the mat.

For three seconds, neither of us moved. The silence in the room stretched so thin you could hear the soft humming of the ventilation unit far above us. Jarrah didn't take a high guard; he stood loose, watching my eyes, reading my posture like an open book.

I struck first.

I drove forward with a jab to his chin, fast and sharp. Jarrah slipped it easily to the left, the heat of his cheek brushing within an inch of my knuckles. Before I could recover, his hand darted out, wrapping around my forearm and pulling me forward into his chest.

The collision knocked the air from my lungs. His skin was warm, damp with a light sheen of sweat, and the faint scent of sandalwood and cedar enveloped me entirely.

"Too eager," he whispered in my ear, his breath hot against my sensitive skin.

A wave of heat shot straight down my spine. Frustrated and furious at my own reaction to him. I threw my elbow backward toward his ribs. Jarrah blocked it with his forearm, his grip shifting instantly to my waist as he pivoted, slamming me down onto the mat.

The impact vibrated through my back, but I didn't let him settle. I wrapped my legs around his waist, using his own momentum to twist him over, pinning him beneath me on the cold vinyl.

I straddled his hips, my palms slammed down against his shoulders, pinning him. My chest was heaving, my hair falling over my face in dark, messy strands.

"How's my eagerness now?" I panted, glaring down at him.

Jarrah didn't look defeated. A slow, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his lips. He looked up at me, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to meet my eyes with an intensity that made my throat go completely dry. His hands didn't push me off; instead, his large palms settled on the outside of my thighs, his thumbs digging lightly into the taut muscle just above my knees.

"You're in a terrible position, Malia," he rasped, his thumbs tracing slow, maddening circles against my skin.

"I'm on top," I shot back, trying to keep my voice steady despite the treacherous thrumming of my heart against my ribs. "I have the leverage."

"You think so?"

In one blindingly fast motion, Jarrah bucked his hips and swept my leg with his foot. The world spun. Before I could catch my balance, he had completely flipped our positions.

Now he was hovering over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the ambient light of the room. His hands drove my wrists up over my head, pinning them against the padded floor. His body was pressed flush against mine, the heavy, solid weight of him pinning me completely, his chest rising and falling against my breasts in a slow, rhythmic pulse.

I gasped, my eyes widening.

"Now," Jarrah whispered, leaning down until his lips were bare millimeters from the shell of my ear. "Who has the leverage?"

I couldn't speak. Every nerve ending in my body felt like it was on fire. The physical fight had evaporated, replaced by a suffocating, intoxicating heat that made my core ache. I could feel the hard line of his muscles pressed against my stomach, the deep, ragged rhythm of his breathing, and the sudden, unmistakable shift in his focus. He wasn't fighting me anymore.

He was holding me.

"Let go of my hands, Jarrah," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly.

"Make me," he murmured.

Instead of fighting him, I tilted my head up, my eyes locking onto his. His gaze was dark, turbulent, stripped of his usual cold composure. His jaw was set so tight that a pulse beat wildly in his throat. He lowered his face, his forehead coming to rest gently against mine. The contact was so intimate, so raw, that I let out a low, shuddering breath.

"You drive me out of my mind," Jarrah muttered, his voice a rough, broken gravel. "You know that, don't you?"

"Good," I whispered, closing the tiny distance between us until my lips brushed his. "You deserve it."

His grip on my wrists loosened, his fingers sliding down my arms to entwine with mine, pulling our hands down to rest beside our heads. His lips pressed against mine, soft at first, then deep, urgent, and demanding, consuming every ounce of breath I had left.

The world narrowed down to the taste of him, the heat of his skin, and the wild, frantic beat of two hearts hammering in tandem.

Then, a sudden, harsh electronic BEEP shattered the air.

The high-intensity red emergency lights on the gym walls burst to life, flashing rhythmically and bathing the room in a bloody crimson hue.

Jarrah ripped himself away from me instantly, rolling to his feet in a single fluid motion. His face returned to a mask of absolute, lethal control, all traces of warmth vanishing in a heartbeat.

I sat up, gasping for air, my heart slamming against my ribs as the estate's master alarm blared over the hidden speakers.

"Stay down!" Jarrah commanded, reaching under the edge of the sparring mat and pulling out a concealed, sleek black sidearm.

Before I could ask what was happening, the heavy reinforced steel door of the gym hissed open. A lone figure stumbled into the doorway, drenched in rain and blood, holding a crumpled leather folder against his chest before collapsing onto the floorboards.

Jarrah aimed the gun at the doorway, stepping in front of me to shield my body with his own.

"Jarrah..." the man on the floor croaked, his voice wet and choked. He raised a trembling, blood-stained hand, pointing directly at me. "She... she lied to you. The breach... it wasn't an attack from the outside. The signal came from inside her room.”