Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I—I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. I didn’t—”
“Louder. Don’t fucking stop until you sound like you mean it and you’re not just afraid of me tracking you down and beating your ass.” Oh my god. It’s…it’s his voice.
The man flinches, looking anywhere but at the camera. “I’m—I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry I harassed her.”
My masked man’s voice is sharper, pressing. “Who?”
“Dream Mafia Queen,” he says in a rush of words. “I’m sorry.”
I stare, horror-stricken and somehow…warm with pleasure. He… did this… for me? It’s like the online version of cornering my schoolyard bully with a fist under his nose.
“Good. I’ll let that pass. Now delete the comments and delete your account. Everything.”
He nods frantically, his fingers scrambling over the keyboard. I scroll back to my comments as fast as my fingers can move and see every one of the hateful comments on my posts are gone.
My hands shake, my breath coming in shallow gasps. He did this online. He can’t threaten someone like this, he’ll get—
Oh. Wait.
That’s when I note that this video is only for my eyes.
I stare and blink, shaking my head. What has he done?
I put my phone down, my emotions all over the place.
This…this crosses a line, he has to know that. I’m shaking my head in disbelief, still trying to process how I feel about this, when my DM’s ping.
Bratvabloodline
He won’t bother you again.
I shut the app and stare at my wall.
I’ve never had anyone defend me before. I didn’t know it would feel like this. I can’t—
I really need to get my head in the game.
The gym is my church. This is where I worship.
I need to get my sweat on.
I toss on my gear and head to the gym, where I can control chaos and channel it into something tangible.
The weights don’t lie. The pull-up bar doesn’t judge. In here, I’m strong.
Untouchable.
I love plugging in my headphones, cranking my music, and zoning out. It’s just me versus me.
It feels good. It feels right.
And I’m finally getting over the mixed emotions from the apology. So the prickling awareness at the back of my neck? It pisses me off.
At first, I ignore it. There are always eyes at the gym, fleeting glances I brush off like sweat on my forehead. But this? This feels different. It’s heavier. More deliberate.
For fuck’s sake.
Who’s staring at me? Yes, I have a fine ass—thanks to endless squats and hip thrusts—but it’s my ass, and I don’t appreciate someone raking their unwanted gaze over it.
I drop from the pull-up bar like a cat, landing lightly on my feet with a soft thud. I turn toward the source of that invasive gaze, already bristling with annoyance.
I’m not wrong.
But I’m also completely unprepared.
He’s leaning casually against the dumbbell rack, arms folded across his chest, a cocky smirk curving his lips. He’s tall—ridiculously tall—with a face my grandma would’ve called “devil-may-care.” His body? Built like he spends his life in places like this, all broad shoulders and carved muscles.
But it’s not just the muscles. Not even the height. It’s the way he looks at me—sharp, knowing, like he’s already two steps ahead. Like he knows me.
Wait… maybe he does. He looks oddly familiar. Do I know him from somewhere?
Still, he shouldn’t be looking at me like that, like he—no, my romance conditioning is getting ahead of me again.
“Is there something you need?” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut.
His smirk deepens, his cheek dimpling just enough to make me furious. And yeah, fine, he’s hot. Too hot. And by the way he carries himself, he knows it.
“You’re cheating,” he says, his tone maddeningly smooth.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Your hands,” he says, gesturing lazily toward the pull-up bar. “They’re too close. It makes it easier.”
That voice…
No. It can’t be.
I roll my neck with exaggerated patience. “Oh, really? So, you’ve been watching me long enough to critique my form?” I narrow my eyes at him, the annoyance simmering into something sharper. “And how’s my ass? Get a good look at that, too?”
The words are out before I can stop them.
“I haven’t, actually,” he says, pushing off the rack with an infuriatingly casual flex that makes every damn muscle in his body stand out. I swallow hard, hating myself for noticing. “But if you want to turn around…” He twirls his finger in the air, smirking like he owns the world.
“I’ll turn around,” I say sweetly, flipping him off instead. Then I face him fully, which—great—gives him a perfect view of my chest. My stupid, flimsy workout top does nothing to hide the outline of my nipples.
His eyes flick down for a fraction of a second, just enough to make me want to throw a dumbbell at him. His smirk grows, and he shakes his head like I’ve just confirmed everything he already assumed.