Page 42 of Isle of Beauty

“Came to enjoy the show, cugina?” I drawl.

Marcel, Julian and Dominic need to assess Pierce’s weaknesses. And they’re not about to sugarcoat it.

We only have a couple of weeks left before the wedding and the official power transfer between him and Alessio. What will happen if the men find him lacking and refuse his leadership? The idea of putting him into a pit of snakes brings a smile to my face that immediately crashes into a frown. I don’t want him to end up bloodied and limping. Not today, not on our wedding night, not ever. I can’t stand to imagine him injured.

We’ve had a few hits to our warehouses in the past two days. Mostly trespassing attempts and a couple of boxes missing. It’s nothing completely out of the ordinary but what used to be individual events seem to get closer together. My gut spasms and dark clouds loom over me in perpetual dread. I wouldn’t be surprised if Igor’s brother Misha was behind it. He’s never been sane.

Pierce needs to learn the ropes and fast. Julian and him have installed a new security system but I fear it won’t be enough.

Lost in thought, I only hear him when he’s at my back, whispering in my ear. “I thought lesson number one was to be aware of one’s surroundings.”

Fuck. I just got caught daydreaming - or rather day scheming - like a child at their first lesson. I turn and smile sweetly at him. “No, mo caru. Lesson number one is never underestimate your opponent.”

I don’t give him time to ponder on my warning before punching him in the guts. He doubles over, but recovers quickly and grins like a maniac.

I saunter to the ring, turning my back on him so he won’t see my own smile plastered on my face. He’ll get on well with our family of psychos.

After telling Marcel that he took boxing classes most of his life, they both go through drills. Julian and I go through our own while Giulia and her brother pair up.

Every minute or so, my gaze lands on the other ring where Pierce’s body glistens with sweat. He ends up on the floor more time than not thanks to Marcel’s swift blows but I’d be lying if I said seeing his determination etched onto his sculpted face isn’t doing something to my core. His jaw is set tightly and his muscles keep shifting to move around, ducking and kicking.

“You’re distracted, surella. Does my brother turn you on?” Julian muses.

“Shut up,” I lash out like a kid with a crush. Because it’s literally what I am right now. A school girl with a crush. Except the crush is my fiancé and I get to fuck him when we marry in exactly twenty days.

If we haven’t killed each other by then.

Focus.

No fucking.

This asshole took me hostage on my own island.

I bring my attention back on Julian but he dodges my arms and legs easily. I’m a mess, my coordination is shit, and no matter what I do, the grunts escaping from Pierce’s mouth on the ring next to us are just too much.

“Why aren’t you mad at him, Jules? He’s jeopardising your safety with his stunt! And he knows nothing of what we do.”

Julian shrugs. “He’ll learn. And you know I’m a romantic at heart. He claimed his throne for you, surella, I’m sure of it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t know his motives, but I have nothing to do with it.”

I vehemently protest Julian’s absurd claims but secretly, I hope he’s right. And it’s that emotion I hate most. Hope. Because it won’t get me anywhere. Pierce hates me. I’m not sure why he wants to marry me, but whatever his goal, I know for a fact it’ll leave me either heartbroken or dead.

And I don’t know which one is worse.

I’ve already been broken by a man I hoped would love me and care for me. It only leads to betrayal and pain.

We continue to spar until Marcel calls Julian to train with Pierce then joins me on my side of the room, giving me a taste of the punishment I deserve. My teacher saw exactly how bad my form and my moves are today and decided the best way for me to refocus is to eat the floor.

“You’re getting sloppy, principessa.”

He doesn’t even deign to reprimand me more and just keeps kicking me to the ground, move after move. He doesn’t correct my stance, my footwork or my punches. I’m below his caring, which is even worse than if he corrected, yelled or paced like I was an affront to his years of training. The cold indifference is like tiny shards of ice planted over my body in quick succession.

Time after time, I end up on my front, my back. He punches my sides before pushing me down. I’m out of breath, panting and recovering too slowly. I throw myself at him without a plan, grunting and kicking. Each attempt is met with an iron fist and another blow.

“You’re angry again. Good. Use it.” Marcel’s mouth lifts the tiniest bit. For him, that’s almost cheerful. He’s satisfied that he’s kicking my ass but he’s right. I learn best when I descend into the dark recesses of my mind.

I let rage fuel my movements, dodging his attack on my left flank, taking the opportunity to retaliate, harshly. I keep coming, not letting up. Marcel has now taken a fully defensive posture but I continue to pound on his face and abdomen while he protects himself as best as he can, the hits reverberating along my arms and giving me more strength to continue my assault.

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