CH 4: Angelica Face

Hugo’s POV

The familiar scent of sweat, leather, and antiseptic did nothing to ground me. My body was on autopilot, muscles burning as I danced around the ring, but my mind had been a fucking traitor all morning. 

It wasn't in the gym; it was miles away, back in the silence of my high-rise apartment. It was with her.

I had left her there, a fragile little girl, and the thought of her alone in my space had invaded every corner of my mind. 

Her face was branded onto the back of my eyelids. Not the defiant, terrified face from when I first took her, but a newer image from last night—the unguarded slope of her neck, the soft parting of her lips in sleep. 

The memory was a splinter under my skin, a constant, maddening irritant. Since when did I let a woman get under my skin? 

My footwork grew sloppy. The jab I threw was telegraphed and weak. I was leaving my entire left side open, a rookie mistake I hadn’t made in fifteen years. 

I knew Tristan saw it. He was testing me, his movements becoming sharper, more precise as mine fell apart.

The consequence was inevitable. A crack of pain exploded against my jaw as his glove connected, snapping my head back with a force that rattled my teeth. 

White light flashed behind my eyes, and I stumbled back on unsteady legs, the rough canvas of the ring catching my heel. 

The world swam back into focus, and the first thing I registered was the slick, metallic taste of blood flooding my mouth. Right. The ring. My coach. I had been so lost in my head I’d forgotten I was in a fucking fight.

“Hugo, you with me?” my coach, Tristan, barked. He had lowered his gloves, and his sharp eyes were filled with a mixture of anger and concern that pissed me off more than the punch had.

I didn’t answer right away. I bent slightly and spat a thick glob of blood onto the canvas, a dark stain on the clean surface. 

Wiping my mouth with the back of my glove, I locked my gaze with his, channeling all my frustration into two words. “I’m fucking fine.”

I vaulted over the ropes, the sting in my jaw a dull throb now, a grim reminder of my distraction. 

I snatched my gym bag and a towel from the bench, ignoring the burn of my coach's gaze on my back.

“And where are you going, man?” Tristan asked, his voice laced with disapproval.

“I’ll be back tonight before the fight,” I muttered, not breaking my stride as I headed for the exit. My only plan was to clear my head, but even that felt impossible.

Just as my hand hit the door, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I ripped it out, ready to ignore the call, but froze when I saw the name: Jasmine. My little sister. My tone softened instantly, all the raw anger draining out of me to make room for a familiar worry.

“Jas, are you okay?” I asked, my voice lower now. She’d been in that sterile hospital room for two years, a constant, living reminder of the tragedy that shattered our world.

“Hey, big bro…” Her voice was weak, but she was trying. She was always trying for me. “I’m fine. It’s just… you don’t have to visit me today. Mom’s already here.”

The name hit me like a body shot, knocking the air from my lungs. “Oh. Mom,” I said, the single word feeling heavy and foreign on my tongue.

It had been a long time. Our mother had separated herself from us after the accident, finding a new life with a new husband. Part of me understood why she ran; part of me would never be able to forgive her for it. I couldn't blame her, but I couldn't face her either.

"Alright, lil sis,” I said softly, the protective instinct overriding everything else. “Take care, okay? And don’t give Mom a headache.” I hung up before she could reply and shoved the phone back into my pocket, the brief moment of tenderness already evaporating.

The drive back to the building was a special kind of hell. Her face haunted the rain-streaked windshield—the girl I left locked in my apartment.

A question gnawed at me: why hadn't she called the police?

Was she too broken, too scared, or was it something else? The not-knowing was a corrosive acid in my gut.

As soon as I unlocked the door to my penthouse, a cold dread washed over me. The air was still. The room was empty. She wasn't there. A frantic energy surged through me as I stalked through the rooms, checking every space. No trace of her. It was like she had just vanished. 

Where the hell was she?

Just then, a soft knock echoed from the front door.

I ripped the door open, my body coiled for a confrontation. But it was her.

My eyes landed on her face, so damn angelic without a trace of makeup on her lips. She looked so freshly, so purely beautiful that for a second, I forgot how to breathe. 

I couldn't explain the raw, magnetic pull she had on me, and I hated the weakness it exposed. I immediately forced my expression into a mask of cold fury.

“Where were you?” I demanded, my voice low and cold.

She bit her lower lip, a trace of defiance in her eyes. Before a single word could pass those lips, I snaked my arm out, clamped onto her forearm, and yanked her inside. 

The heavy door boomed shut behind her, the sound echoing the slam of my patience. I crowded her against the wood, my body a wall of pure fury.

"I told you I need a week…" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"The agreement was that you stay here," I snarled, my face inches from hers. "It was not an invitation to go for a fucking stroll and leave me to find an empty apartment. Do you have any idea what I thought had happened?"

She flinched but held her ground. "Then I'll just go if you don't want to help me—"

She tried to turn, but I slammed my hand flat against the door beside her head, trapping her completely. "You're not going anywhere." Her eyes widened, pupils blown wide with fear and something else… something that made my blood heat. "You want my protection? You want to stay in my home? Fine. But nothing is free. You will pay for it."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a black debit card. She held it up between us. "Here."

I stared at the card, then at her. I’d pegged her as a broke, helpless little bird. This changed things. This made her… interesting. 

I snatched the card from her fingers, my thumb brushing against her skin. The transaction, however, didn't erase her transgression. My eyes turned to ice.

"You still haven't answered my question," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Where. Were. You?"