Chapter 10 Kieran's Pov

I shouldn’t have been there.

​The thought hammered in my skull with every wet thud of my fist hitting the heavy bag. Three. Four. The impact rattled my teeth and sent a jarring vibration up my forearms, but it didn't do a damn thing to quiet the noise in my head. Sweat stung my eyes, carving tracks through the grime on my face, and my lungs felt like they were filled with hot ash. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.

​Across the gym, Ethan was punishing a bag with an ugly, jagged aggression. Celeste was a few feet away, moving through her drills with a trainer. She was perfect—precise, bloodless, every move a calculated display of grace.

​Phoenix Rising didn't smell like the Blackthorne clubs. There was no mahogany or expensive cologne here. It smelled like floor wax, stale sweat, and survival.

​I’d told myself this was "oversight." I’d told myself I followed them here after the school run to assess the threat. To get a read on Lucian Reed—the man who had sat in my kitchen this morning acting like he’d bought the place.

​I hit the bag again, hard enough to make the rusted chains groan. His name tasted like copper in my mouth.

​“You’re overextending, Kieran,” Celeste’s voice drifted over, light and sharp.

​“I know,” I snapped, not even glancing at her.

​Ethan paused, wiping a sleeve across his forehead. “You’re distracted. You’ve been hitting that thing like it owes you money for twenty minutes. Give it a rest.”

​I ignored him. I didn't have the words to explain the knot in my gut.

​Then, I heard it.

​Through the thin wall separating the main floor from the private mats. A voice—breathless, ragged, and completely spent.

​“...again,” Seraphina rasped. “I can do it again.”

​My heart did a violent, sickening roll in my chest. I froze. The heavy bag swung back and clipped my shoulder, but I didn't feel it. I was straining to hear through the drywall.

​Lucian’s voice followed hers, low and steady. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Seraphina.”

​“I’m not quitting,” she shot back.

​I couldn't remember the last time she’d sounded like that. Fierce. Electric. For ten years, I’d watched her go dim, like a candle running out of oxygen. I’d silenced her so slowly, so politely, that I hadn't even noticed she was gone.

​Now, she sounded alive. And I had nothing to do with it.

​My feet moved before I could stop them. I shoved through the door.

​She was on the mat, her chest heaving, dark strands of hair plastered to her neck. Lucian was crouched right over her, holding out a water bottle. He was looking at her with an intensity that made my blood turn to acid.

​He was too close. Way too fucking close.

​Jealousy didn't just "happen"—it detonated. It was a raw, primal roar in my ears. I’d spent months telling myself I didn't care who she saw, but seeing his shadow over her made me want to burn the building down.

​Seraphina looked up. Her eyes hit mine.

​There was no flinch. No guilt. No "I can explain."

​Just a cold, flat indifference that hurt worse than a punch to the jaw. She looked through me like I was a ghost.

​Celeste stepped in behind me, her eyes sweeping the scene with a dry, judgmental curl of her lip. “Really? Is this what we’re calling discipline now? Rolling around on a dirty mat?”

​Lucian stood up slowly. He didn't look startled. He looked bored. He met Celeste’s gaze with a terrifying, predatory stillness. “You must be Celeste.”

​Celeste gave him a tight, plastic smile. “You’ve heard of me?”

​“I know all of you,” Lucian said evenly. “Patterns. Histories. I know exactly what I’m looking at.”

​I stepped forward, my pulse thrumming in my throat. “Seraphina—”

​“Don’t,” she cut me off. Her voice was like a sheet of ice. She didn't even look at me. “You aren't my family. You aren't my husband. Don’t use my name like you still have a right to it.”

​The words left me winded. I had spent a decade teaching her how to be distant, and now she was a goddamn master of the craft.

​She stood up, her legs shaking from the workout, but her spine was a rod of iron. She looked sharper. Colder. I was proud of her, and I hated it—hated that this strength didn't belong to me.

​“You don’t get to evaluate my life,” she said, her gaze moving from me to Celeste to Ethan. “You forfeited that right the day you walked away. All of you.”

​Lucian moved then. He didn't say a word, but he stepped right into her personal space, shoulder-to-shoulder. It was a claim. A protective, silent barricade.

​“I plan to court her,” Lucian said.

​The floor felt like it dropped out from under me.

​Celeste actually gasped. “Excuse me? You’re joking.”

​Lucian ignored her. He was looking only at Seraphina. She looked shocked, her lips parted, her eyes wide.

​“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demanded, my voice cracking with a rage I couldn't hide. “Are you out of your mind?”

​Lucian finally looked at me. His eyes were like blue flint. “Respectfully, Kieran, your opinion is the least relevant thing in this room.”

​He reached down, took Seraphina’s hand—the hand that used to wear my ring—and kissed her knuckles.

​I saw red. The room literally blurred. He was crossing lines I didn't even know I still had.

​He didn't stay to argue. He just turned and led her away, his hand firmly around hers. I stood there like a fool, watching them go.

​“Did you see that?” Celeste exploded. “The nerve of that man. He’s doing this just to mess with us, Kieran. It’s a provocation.”

​Ethan shrugged, looking almost impressed. “They’re divorced, Celeste. It’s not a crime.”

​“I don’t care!” she snapped. “It’s working, isn't it? Look at him!”

​I didn't hear a word she said. All I could see was Lucian’s hand on her skin. All I could feel was the hollow, ripping ache in my chest. I had opened the cage to let her fly, and now I wanted to break her wings just to keep her grounded.

​I followed them.

​I didn't think. I didn't have a plan. I just needed to stop it.

​The locker room was quiet, thick with the smell of steam and cedar. Seraphina was standing near a bench, rubbing a towel over her neck. She looked flushed. Beautiful. Alive in a way that made me feel like a walking corpse.

​She heard me and turned. No surprise. Just exhaustion.

​“You shouldn't be here, Kieran.”

​“You can’t date him,” I said. The words were ugly. They were possessive. I didn't care.

​She laughed. It was a short, sharp sound that cut me to the bone. She held up her hand, showing me her bare, ringless fingers.

​“Is there a divorce ring I’m supposed to wear?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Something to remind you that you have no claim on me? That you threw me away?”

​Something snapped. The last shred of my "Blackthorne control" disintegrated.

​I didn't care about the divorce. I didn't care about Celeste waiting outside.

​I crossed the space in two steps and slammed her back against the lockers. The metal groaned and rattled under the impact. I boxed her in, my arms braced on either side of her head, my chest inches from hers.

​Her breath hitched. I could feel the heat radiating off her skin. My eyes locked on her lips, and the only truth left in the world burned through me.

​“You are mine,” I growled, my voice vibrating with a decade of repressed hunger. “And you aren't going anywhere.”