Page 31 of Shackled

This could be the perfect way to neutralize my brother. Once I get seated on the throne of the Los Sangre Dorada as the wife of Lev Romanov? Holy hell will heads roll. He can be king all he fucking wants as long as I reign as queen.

I find a single set of clothes in a guest room that will do for a workout. The tension from earlier still lingers in the air as I make my way to the gym.

I do need to work out. I need to clear my head, and working out has always been my way of finding focus. I need to stay strong, too.

His guards step inside as if they know better than to underestimate me.

The gym is spacious and well equipped, a testament to Lev's dedication to his own training. I get a quick vision of the two of us working out together and quickly squash it.

He isn’t my friend.

But he could be. We could rule together.

Every time I entertain the idea, I wonder if I’m crazier than I thought. Still, though…

I take a quick look around and head straight for the punching bag, wrapping my hands with the practiced ease of someone who's spent countless hours in training. Each punch lands with a satisfying thud, the rhythm soothing my restless mind. Fuck, but it feels good to break a sweat.

My knuckles are numb, my hands aching, but I don’t care.

“Carlos, for being a male chauvinistic prick and hurting my best friend,” I mutter.

BAM.

“My father, for thinking he could teach me to be a mindless robot and for hitting my mother.”

BAM.

“Javier, for not having a shred of human decency.” I could make a litany of accusations against him, but instead I let my fists do the job.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

I narrow my eyes at the bag. “For Lev, for having the nerve to be so fucking hot and total fucking asshole.”

I hit the bag again, and again, losing myself to the repetition until sweat blurs my vision and I’m gasping for breath.

“Wow,” a deep, amused voice, says behind me. “I don’t know if I should kiss you or take you over my knee.”

I swivel around to see Lev standing by the entrance, watching me. His gaze is intense, a mix of curiosity and something else I can't quite decipher. A corner of his lips tips up and his eyes lazily take me in. I’m surprised when he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as if I’m affecting him. I’m covered in sweat, the little tee riding up my belly. My hair sticks to my forehead and neck, and these boxing gloves are twice my size. I’ve had better days.

Well, two can play at this game.

Kiss you or take you over my knee.

I lick my lips. It doesn’t help that blood is pulsing through my veins and I already know what he can do with that mouth. I can only imagine what it feels like lying over his lap. I would kick and scream and fight him and he’d overpower me.

And I would fucking love that.

Now that I’ve decided I’m going to lean into this and make the best of it, I’m giving myself permission to really appreciate the upside here. The guy is hot as hell.

Women always talk about men’s arms, or their backs, or how hot they are when they take their tees off. But me? Goddamn, give me a man with shoulders. Shoulders I can anchor myself on when he pounds into me or bite when I wrestle my way on top.

Now it’s my turn to swallow and take him in. Jesus, people underestimate the effect of a plain white tee stretched over well-defined shoulders, carved biceps, and a six pack.

Rawr.

Still, I probably shouldn’t let him sneak up on me like that.

"Don't you have better things to do than watch me?" I snap, acting mildly annoyed by his intrusion.

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