Page 16 of These Jagged Edges

"Tell me two more."

"My purse and your glasses." I instantly feel all the tension leave my body. "What was that?"

"Coping technique I rely on before a fight to keep me centered. Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. It helped keep my head clear." I feel his thumb begin to trace the side of my neck soothingly. "You going to let that shirt go anytime today?"

Glancing down, I realize I have my shirt balled up so tightly in my fist I can't feel my fingers. I let the shirt go and flex the blood back into my fingers. This is new ground Maddox and I seem to be on and I’m not sure how I feel about it. A part of me feels at ease, and the other part is terrified because I feel like he’s showing me a small piece of who he is, a piece he doesn’t allow anyone to see anymore, terrifying me because I like this side of him.

"Okay, then get your little ass to the mat, so I can show you the proper way to throw a Hammer fist."

I laugh. "Are you blind? I'm not tiny."

Maddox drops his hand, and I instantly miss his warmth. He walks behind me and turns us so I can see our reflection in the window. "See? Tiny compared to me."

We aren’t touching, but close enough that I can feel his large frame surrounding my own. He is well over a foot taller than me and swamps me with his massive body. Maddox Wilder may scare the hell out of me, but I've noticed the one thing I feel most around him is safe. We stand there just staring at one another in a silent exchange of shared pains.

I take a deep breath. "Maddox, Thank you."

"For what?" he softly whispers, clearly just as affected as I am by this moment.

"For making me feel comfortable with you." I also want to tell him I understand now he wears his grief like an angry spiked collar, not letting anyone close. His anger is from his loss of his daughter because what else is grief but not love with no place to go?

Maddox stares at me tenderly. "You never have to be afraid of me, Evie."

An emotion I haven’t felt in a long time clogs my throat. Deciding we've had enough heavy stuff for the day, I turn and look at him. "Alright, teach me to throw a good right hook. I want to put a guy's dick in the dirt."

I stand with my hands up in what I hope resembled a fighter’s stance, waiting for Maddox to bark at me, but instead, he does something I don't expect at all. He ducks his chin and laughs. That thick black hair falls into his face, and he brushes it back. "Woman, you’re something else."

Yeah, my panties instantly become soaked, and I learn one important thing: I am utterly screwed.

Chapter Seven

MADDOX

“Evie,”I caution for the third time.

She stormed in like a force of nature today, demanding I play something other than hard rock—so we compromised on alternative, and she flat out refused to entertain any of my requests for a break.

That was a first for me; I’m not used to anyone ignoring my orders. But she was different—unpredictable, fierce, and unwavering in her resolve. It was that very defiance that made her all the more dangerous, igniting something within me that I couldn’t quite name, a thrill that both excited and unnerved me.

Currently she’s drenched in sweat, her hair pretty much fell out of its intricate braid long ago, and she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said the last fifteen minutes. It’s just us here today and the only thing filling the silence is the steadythump, thump, thumpof her punching the bag over and over again.

“Damn it!” she cries out before dropping to her ass and laying down. Her chest heaves with rapid breaths, betraying the tears she’s trying to hold back.

I swallow, I’ve never been good with emotions, fuck, look how I handle my own. Still, I peel myself from where I’m propped against the wall and make my way over to her and stand there awkwardly for a second before dropping down beside her. I sit quietly, listening to her sniffling before deciding to lie down beside her.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough to let her know I’m beside her.

She stares up at the ceiling, and I can’t tear my eyes away, mesmerized as her tears fall like delicate raindrops, pooling into a shimmering puddle on the floor beneath her. It reminds me of the haunting beauty captured in a John Waterhouse painting, a poignant blend of sorrow and grace.

I’m a meathead, not an artist. The only artist in my family is Louisiana and she’ll argue there isn’t a creative bone in her body. Which is bullshit, mama had to buy her water-based paint when she was little because she painted everything. From us, to her little sister Sophie, even mama’s car one time. She was obsessed with Greek sculptures at the time and tagged mamas car with a naked man’s lower half. Merc lovingly named mamas car ‘the peen queen’ after that.

She even painted a striking mural across the back wall of the gym, a bold statement piece that commanded attention. Mike Tyson loomed large in black and white, his intense gaze captured in gritty detail, every line of his face etched with raw power and determination. Surrounding him is a burst of vivid red graffiti, chaotic and energetic, like the unleashed force of a punch. Above him, "The Boxing Den" was scrawled in elegant, flowing script, the contrast between the graceful lettering and the aggressive imagery creating a powerful tension that set the tone for the entire space. You would never know she did it three sheets to the wind.

Yeah, right. No talent whatsoever. I mentally roll my eyes.

“I said no tears, Pretty Girl.”

Evie blinks in confusion before tilting her head my way, a question lingering in her gaze.

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