Chapter 32: Sparring Session

RAYÉN

We didn’t die in that library. Millaray had melted the floor bolts to the wine cellar lift three days earlier as a contingency, and we dropped into the damp tunnels just as the High Council’s execution squad flooded the room with flashbangs and bullets.

 But escaping the estate didn’t mean escaping the cage. It only moved the walls closer.

Thirty-six hours later, we were hiding in an unmarked safehouse tucked into the granite foothills of the Andes, twenty miles east of Santiago.

It was a fortress of poured concrete and iron rebar, with low ceilings that trapped the smell of sweat, rust, and gun oil.

I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the scar on my hand resting against the SUV window. Mateo. Alive. Watching me like a specimen under glass.

The thought should have comforted me. Instead, it made my stomach knot. A dead brother was easier to mourn than a living one who had chosen to disappear. If Mateo had survived all these years, then every memory I had protected was suddenly suspect. Every word my mother had spoken could be another lie.

The sharp thud of leather hitting leather echoed down the hallway, drawing me toward the sub-basement gym.

I stood in the entrance door, staring at his chest,almost leaking my lips and biting my fingers.

Thud. Thud. Crack.

His bare foot turned on the rubber mat, sending the heavy bag swinging on its iron chain. Every blow was heavy and deliberate, born of the same quiet rage twisting inside me.

“You’re opening your left side,” I said. “If a Council enforcer catches you leaning into that hook, they’ll put a blade through your liver before your guard comes back up.”

Lautaro stopped moving.

The bag swung into his chest, but he barely moved. He caught it with one wrapped hand, his chest heaving as dark hair clung to his forehead.

“My guard is fine,” he said. “My side is broken. There’s a difference.”

“Then you shouldn’t be hitting a bag.” I stepped onto the mat. “You’re bleeding through your bandages.”

“It’s just skin.” He pulled the wrap from his knuckles with his teeth and dropped it on the bench. 

He turned quickly and his attention caught at the silver blade at my waistband before returning to my eyes. 

“You’ve been pacing since midnight, Rayén. You’re jumpy. Your mind is out there with your brother.”

“My brother is a dead man who lied to me for six years,” I speak angrily. 

“And I don’t get jumpy. I get sharp.”

A low sound escaped him, almost a laugh. He stepped into the center of the mat and lowered his stance.

“Prove it.”

I froze. “You’re injured.”

“I’m alive.” He stepped closer. 

“And out there, the Council doesn’t care about my stitches. Neither will Beltrán. Neither will Mateo. If we’re going to survive this partnership, I need to know you won’t freeze when you look at a face you thought was buried.”

The insult hit exactly where he intended.

“Don’t test me, Don Lautaro.”

“Then hit me.”

I didn’t hesitate. I moved close to him and threw a left jab at his jaw.

Lautaro was faster than a man bleeding from his gut. He caught my wrist and deflected the blow. I looked to my right elbow toward his exposed ribs, but he countered, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me against him.

The impact drove the air from my lungs.

My chest pressed against his bare skin, his sweat soaking through my tank. I felt his heart beating against my ribs.

“Slow,” he murmured near my ear. “You’re fighting with temper, Rayén. Temper gets you killed.”

“Let go of me.”

“Make me.”

I hooked my calf behind his knee and pulled backward. We crashed onto the mat in a tangle of limbs.

I ended up on top, sitting on his waist, my hands braced against his shoulders.

His dark eyes flashed with something more dangerous than anger. His hands came up, sliding along my thighs until his thumbs rested against my hips.

Neither of us moved.

The basement was silent except for our breathing. My loosened hair fell around us, brushing his throat. I felt the dangerous pull between us, the forbidden heat of two enemies trapped in the same burning house.

His gaze dropped to my lips.

“You hate me,” he whispered. “You’ve hated my name your entire life.”

“I hate what you represent,” I said, my heart started beating heavily. My fingers brushed the warm line of his collarbone. “I hate that I’m standing here depending on you.”

“Then push off me.” His thumb traced my hip. “Walk away, Rayén.”

I didn’t move.

I hated how easily my body responded to him. Anger should have kept me distant, but it only sharpened every sensation the heat of his skin, the strength in his hands, the uneven rhythm of his breathing. For one reckless second, I forgot the Council, the SUVs, and the brother waiting beyond the gate. I forgot that wanting Lautaro could be more dangerous than any weapon aimed at us.

He shifted beneath me, leaning close until his mouth hovered barely an inch from mine. His breath mingled with mine.

Then a red light on the concrete wall began flashing.

A sharp mechanical chime shattered the silence.

Lautaro’s hands went still. I scrambled off him as he pushed himself upright, ignoring the blood spreading across his bandage.

He grabbed the tactical comms terminal from the bench and tapped the receiver.

Millaray’s voice crackled through the speaker, sharp and urgent.

“Lautaro, get up here now. The perimeter sensors just tripped on the south ridge. Someone bypassed our dead-zone jammer.”

Lautaro locked eyes with me. “Is it the Council?”

“No,” Millaray whispered. “It’s a single vehicle. And it just broadcast an encrypted family frequency on our closed line.”

She paused.

Static filled the room.

My pulse stumbled. After thirty-six hours of hiding, fighting, and pretending I could control the fear clawing through me, my brother had finally come back. I didn’t know whether to run toward him, raise a weapon, or demand every truth he had buried.

He knew exactly where.

“It’s Mateo’s personal signal. He’s standing at the gate alone… and he’s asking for Rayén.”