Her guard, her temptation

12

kaira astor

My mind is leaping over every word, every touch and every gaze. What the f**k was that? And, where the f**k is Amara? I tighten the strand of hair in my braid, yanking the hair tie from my wrist and fold it around the end of my braid. I'm angry. No, livid. Zyran has no right to touch me the way he does, he has no right to speak to me the way that he does, and he certainly has no right to make me feel the way he does. I huff out a breath of air, tugging on my black tight shorts and pull the matching black sport-bra on. My emotions are spiraling and they shouldn't. Being the heir to the throne has taught me to keep my emotions in check, to always have control over my feelings and thoughts. To have control over every situation.

I always have, expects for the moments where I threaded towards being reckless and utterly stupid. But, it's never been like this. I have no control over my body, mind or emotions when it comes to Zyran and his taunts and observing gaze and rough touches. It's driving me insane. Stepping into my shoes, I twist around and stride to my door, my hand halting on the doorknob. He's standing behind this door. I inhale and exhale deep breaths, preparing myself for the onslaught of darkness that's going to flood over my entire being once I open this door.

I force my face to fall blank, putting up the mental shield in my mind that I've been practicing for years. I relax my facial muscles, my face falling blank. My spine rigid, my shoulders stiff and my muscles strained. Inhaling a thin breath, I pull open the door, stepping forward, my breath catching in my throat as my shoes catch on something and I tumble forward. Yelping, I brace myself for the impact, my eyes squeezing shut. Warm fingers wrap around my shoulders, pushing me upright. "I leave you for two days, and you're a mess." Dax. A breath of relief rushes out of my lungs, my eyes fluttering open.

I lift my head, staring up at Dax, into his familiar eyes. "You're back," I breathe out, my entire body sagging in relief. He looks much better than he did the last time I saw him. I try not to wince. His eyes fall over my face in concern. "It looks like you've had the roughest two days of your life," He notes, making sure I'm steady before taking a step back, running his fingers through his hair. "Are you alright?" Tilting his head to the side, he trails his gaze over me. I shake my head lightly. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just glad you're back." I swallow, hard.

Running my hands over my head, I flatten the tendrils that escaped my braid. "Walk with me to the gym?" I gesture down the hall. "I have training with Zyran." The words taste bitter on my tongue.

---

The fluorescent lights above cast a harsh, sterile glow, doing nothing to soften the tension in the air. The gym smells of sweat and leather mats. I stand across from him, fists clenched, breathing steadily despite the storm inside me. The audacity of this man. The sound of leather gloves hitting the punching bag echoes in the dimly lit gym. Zyran's jaw is set, sharp and lethal, his body a coiled spring of tension, his every movement precise and controlled. Just like how it was when he was fighting Dax.

I stare at him for a moment, my hand clenching around the black wraps Dax wrapped around my knuckles. Zyran is absolutely beautiful, draped in shadows and morphed by darkness. Emotionless. Harsh. Cruel. The black shirt clings to his body, outlining every line of muscles and strain as he throws his fists against the swinging bag with swift strikes. His green eyes are narrowed, in a way that makes me think he's pounding his fists into the bag as if imagining it's someone else. My fingers tremble, terrified as I step forward, onto the mat, my eyes not swaying from his. A clear challenge.

First, this man has the audacity to tie me to a bed, then he takes a step further and stares at my best friend and then this morning… my jaw clenches. Zyran's fists halt mid-air, not looking at me as his lips tilt up into a soft, lethal smirk. "You think you can take me down?" Zyran's voice is low, a challenge that hangs between us like a promise of pain. Twisting around so slowly, he faces me, his eyes falling to my clenched fists. I can’t keep my eyes from roving over him, from his unruly black strands, all the way to his piercing green eyes. Dark green eyes stare at me, almost black, twisting with shadows. "You're playing a dangerous game."

I don’t flinch, don’t back away. "I'm not playing," I reply, my voice sharp. He tilts his head to the side, strands falling over his forehead. "You've f****d with me too many times. This is just me making sure you know it." With that, I charge, adrenaline pushing me forward, and I push the thoughts of dying to the back of my mind. My fist flies through the air, aiming for his chest, but Zyran is faster, sidestepping and catching my wrist in midair. The grip he has on me is strong, demanding, his fingers digging into my skin like a warning. So are his eyes, but they flash with a primal emotion.

"Trying to follow through with your threat, little monster?" he asks, pulling me closer, a breath hitching in my throat. Little monster. The way the words roll from his tongue sends my mind into a frenzy and his touch burns. The heat between us isn’t from the fight—it’s something else entirely. My breath hitches, but I don’t break his hold. Instead, I use the leverage to twist my body, bringing my knee up to strike him in the stomach.

Zyran grunts, swiftly stepping back just in time to avoid the blow landing fully. But the movement leaves us both breathless, faces flushed with exertion, the raw intensity of our proximity creating a tension neither can ignore. "You think that will stop me?" Zyran's eyes darken as he circles me, looking for an opening. "You're a fool." He taunts, the sinister tone wrapping around me like vines.

"Maybe," I spit, wiping the sweat from my brow, strands of my hair sticking to my forehead. "But at least I'm not afraid of you." Not like the others are, not in the way they cower away. I hate him. He stops in his tracks, studying me with that infuriating, unreadable look. His gaze flickers to my parted lips before meeting my eyes again, as if considering how far he can push me.

"You should be," he says, voice a dangerous whisper. So sinister and terrifying that I bite down on my tongue. Should be? I throw a quick jab, catching him off guard. It isn’t enough to take him down, but the flash of admiration in his eyes tells me everything I need to know. His dark eyes gleam with something that isn’t just amusement—something sharper, more dangerous. He rolls his broad shoulders, cracking his knuckles like he’s savoring the moment.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice a slow drag of smoke. “You hit harder when you’re angry. And right now? You look furious.” My jaw tightens. He's too observant, too attentive. “I don’t need anger to take you down.” My eyes fall into slits. It's all I feel, anger. The need to control the situation. His smirk deepens, and then he moves. Fast. A blur of muscle and intent. I barely dodge the first strike, twisting to the side, but he’s already on me, backing me toward the edge of the mat.

I swing out, a sharp jab aimed at his ribs, but he catches my wrist, his long fingers wrapping around my arm. His eyes spark with amusement, his pupils dilating as he stares down at me, sharp and unmoving. He leans down, yet again mere inches away from me and my heart lurches. “Getting predictable,” he murmurs, his lips close enough until his breath tickles along my skin. His grip tightens, just for a second, just enough to make my breath hitch. “You sure you don’t want me to teach you how to fight properly? Dax didn’t seem to teach you much.”

I wretch free, spinning behind him, landing a swift kick to the back of his knee. He grunts, dropping slightly, but when he looks up at me, there’s something dark and satisfied in his expression. Staring up at me through his lashes, a shiver rolls down my spine, my breathing hitching in my throat. On his knees. Like this. Beautiful. Dangerous.

“You like putting me on my knees, don’t you?” His voice is lower now, rougher. His eyes flashing over my face with the same intensity that coils anger in my lower stomach. He releases a taking sound that gets past my ears and embeds under my skin. “Should I return the favor?” My pulse pounds in my throat, and I hate that he can pull this reaction from me—even now, even here.

“Shut up and fight,” I snap, gritting my teeth together. He laughs, the sound hollow, slow and deliberate, before lunging again. “Your technique is predictable.” He mutters out flippantly, wholeheartedly uninterested in the fight. I groan, getting into stance. I roll my eyes, and before I can so much as step to the side. Zyran wraps his fingers around my throat, squeezing the sides.

Every instinct screams to pull away, to keep fighting, but all I can do is breathe him in, the taste of the fight lingering on my lips.

He smiles, a feral, dangerous grin. "You've got spirit. I can't wait to break it."