Page 1 of Sinister Devotion

1

CLAIRE

Pain radiates from my backside, coursing its way up to my shoulders as the unforgiving mat underneath my 115-pound frame begs me to go back to sleep. There's a moment when the human body hits an immovable object with such force, it knocks the wind out of you.

It feels like my lungs need a timeout as I pause, pressing my fingers against the firm mat. My chest constricts while my brain finally signals my body to breathe again. The gasp and cough of me deeply inhaling and exhaling echoes around the massive room.

"Get up, Claire. We don't have time for this." Bonnie's voice has the feel of an authority figure. However, since I know she's only six years older than my eighteen, I tend to ignore her commands. Especially when she hurls them at me at six in the morning.

"We've been at this for twenty minutes already. Can we take a break?" I ask her.

"Is that what you're going to ask someone when they're trying to hurt you? You're going to ask a robber, or someone trying to abduct you, to take a break because you're winded?" Bonnie Edelman's tone is ripe with sarcasm, enough to push me to my feet.

"Well, you're my bodyguard. Why aren't you guarding me? This is stupid and I can't—" I stop the words from coming out of my mouth. It's like a dog whistle to the master of the home's ears.

Unfortunately, his shadow darkens the doorway to the training room. The nearly two thousand square feet of rubber mats, weights, mirrors, and all sorts of combat equipment, masks the truly ornate nature of the space.

Beautiful hardwood floors are under the mats, and they're the same polished dark oak that make up the columns placed in each corner. Columns that look like the carved cherubs on top are holding up the fifteen-foot-tall ceilings. Light floods in from the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, but there isn't enough sunlight in the world to make Julian Blackwell look less menacing from his spot near the door.

"Show me." Julian's commands are never ignored. The striking angles of his clean-shaven jaw show the tension in his face. He is grinding his teeth as he watches me spar with my bodyguard.

Bonnie's black hair is pulled tight and into a low bun where my platinum blonde ponytail sits high on my head. She's got an inch or two over my 5'6 height and has to weigh about thirty pounds more than me. The minute she charges me like a fucking rhino, annoyance rattles me and delays my reaction time. It's a direct contradiction to what Bonnie's trying to instill with these training drills.

My mind is paying attention to everything except the woman wrapping her arms around my torso. She hoists me into the air and slams me down onto the mat again. A low growl pierces my lips which are pressing tightly together to stop myself from crying. I close my eyes to take a few breaths, maintaining my composure and not wanting to show any weakness.

When they open, I'm looking into a pair of olive-green eyes that make me wish I was old enough to be someone he'd date. Julian's crouched beside me in a suit that shouldn't be anywhere near my sweaty ass right now.

"Claire." His voice is monotone. "This has to become instinctual for you. It has to be second nature. When people know who you are?—"

I cut him off. "I'm nobody. I'm Claire Anderson, an orphan. I've been doing this same training routine for months and I'm no closer to defending myself against Bonnie, let alone some imaginary villain you think is watching my every move."

"You're somebody to me," Julian says with a touch of sincerity which seems a bit softer than his typically rigid demeanor. "When people know who you are to me…I just want you to be prepared for the worst-case scenario. Don't say you can't do anything. Don't say you're a nobody. Finish up and Bonnie will drive you to the office."

"Whatever you say, Boss-well." I smirk at the name I've been calling him since I first met him.

"Please, Claire, at the office, remember?—"

I whip my palm up to stop him. "I know, I know. Mr. Blackwell, or just Julian."

He huffs and pushes himself to his feet, grabbing my hand to haul me up with him. Julian overestimates how heavy I am as I collide into his chest. It's firm to the touch, muscular under his shirt. My hand grazes the space over his heart for a second before I back away, not wanting to get him dirty.

"Be on time, today," Julian tells us as he walks out of the room.

Bonnie sidles up beside me with her arms folded across her chest. "Ready for round three?"

Without hesitation, I drop and sweep my leg behind her calves, sending her to the mats with a resilient thud.

"Triumph! Once my attacker is down, I can do whatever the moment calls for to give myself a fighting chance to get away." I repeat one of the many lines she drills into me every morning.

I can't help but feel the accomplishment of getting her onto the floor this morning. If only Julian had seen me do that. I extend my hand to help her up, which she takes to get to her feet.

"Good job, Claire. I'll be out front in one hour. Is that enough time for you to get ready?" Bonnie asks.

"No, but I'll be ready in one hour. You heard Boss-well, 'Don't be late.'"

Bonnie snickers as she walks out of the massive training room. Even though I've called Blackwell Manor home for the past ten years, I don't think I'll ever get used to it. There's so much money invested in this estate. It's amazing how cold a place can be with heated floors. Lonely and quiet are the overwhelming feelings which linger around every lavish corner. The staff is kept to a minimum. Then again, it's only me and Julian who live here.

There's a small cottage somewhere on the property where staff can spend the night or take a break. However, there's rarely anyone in the main house. Julian has two maids who come in regularly to clean, but they don't speak to us. I've tried, but all I get are simple smiles and gestures. There's a chef who prepares meals, but we rarely sit down for a formal dinner since our schedules aren't aligned. The bulk of our food is packed and labeled in the fridge, or I grab food from one of my favorite spots around the city. The chef is as mute and indifferent as the rest of the staff, only sparing a three-word greeting any time we cross paths, 'Hello, Miss Anderson,' or 'Evening, Miss Anderson.'

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