It turned out Crystal was a darling.
The moment Alex and I stepped inside, she pulled me aside and led me to the changing room tucked behind the main floor. A few of the women gathered there, greeting me with easy curiosity, looking me over with open interest rather than hostility. They seemed more intrigued than anything else, especially by the fact that a redheaded Italian woman in tailored trousers was walking through their club at their boss's side.
"Is it really true, that you're married to him?" one of them had asked, half-teasing.
"Yes, I am," I replied.
That earned a chorus of surprised reactions.
Not because they thought he was cruel or incapable of it, but because he was rarely seen with anyone. In all the years some of them had worked here, he had never brought anyone over.
Which, admittedly, was reassuring.
I would've hated to discover a reason to pick a fight with my husband.
Crystal, as it turned out, practically ran the place. She had been here the longest, and the authority in her voice made it clear that everyone respected it.
With her sun-kissed skin, bleached-blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, it wasn't difficult to understand why she commanded attention. But it wasn't just beauty. There was steel beneath the polish. She moved like someone who knew exactly how to hold her own.
"I can fight too, you know," she told me at one point, offering a small unapologetic shrug. "After all, in my line of work, a lady needs to know how to defend herself."
I liked her immediately.
She led me down the emergency stairwell, our footsteps echoing against the concrete walls as we descended. The air growing colder with each step, heavier somehow, like the building was swallowing us whole. At the bottom, another steel door waited.
Crystal punched in a code on the keypad. There was a soft beep, then the heavy click of the lock disengaging.
She pulled the door open and gestured for me to enter.
"Thank you," I said.
She gave me a small shrug, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Have fun."
The door shut behind me, the lock sliding back into place with a final, mechanical thud.
The air shifted immediately. It was colder, sharper. The hallway was clean to the point of sterility, all steel and white light, reminding me more of an operating theater than an underground training ground. Closed doors lined both sides, impenetrable, but the sounds bled through anyway. Fists striking flesh, bodies hitting mats, the raw, guttural grunts of men pushing themselves past their limits.
My pulse quickened.
At the very end stood a pair of heavy double doors, matte black and unmarked, yet somehow more imposing than anything else in the corridor.
I moved toward them without hesitation.
I was already dressed for combat anyway. Black tank top, black leggings, the fabric clinging to me like second skin despite the cold. Usually, I'd prefer less fabric since something as intimate as fighting, demanded honesty from the body, and clothing only dulled instinct.
But this was his domain. His men. His rules.
So, this was my compromise.
My fingers curled slightly at my sides as I approached the doors, my pulse quickening with excitement. Whatever waited behind them, there was definitely violence involved. And I needed that right now.
I didn't even hesitate as I reached for the handle and pushed.
The men were all gathering around a fighting ring in the center of the room. Some were in their training gear, some even shirtless, muscles gleaming under the heat. The space was dim, the only real light pouring down in warm, concentrated beams onto the small arena filled with sand.
It felt less like the gym that I thought it would be, and more like a fighting ring.
They were shouting in Russian, their voices rough, punctuated with words that sounded far more like insults than encouragement.
My pulse steadied.
Then the noise began to die.
One by one, their heads turned to me.
Even the fighting had stopped.
But I wasn't looking at them.
I was looking at the man standing in the center of the ring.
Their boss. My husband.
Alexandre Barinov.
Shirtless. Sweat glistening across his shoulders and chest, catching the light as he rolled his neck once, loose and controlled, like a predator between rounds. Sand clung faintly to his skin. His knuckles were reddened. His breathing measured, not even labored.
He looked nothing like the man who had driven me here as he glanced up. The corner of his mouth lifting.
"Finally," he called, voice carrying easily over the room. "I was beginning to think the women had kidnapped you."
A low ripple of laughter moved through the men, but I barely heard it.
Because the way he was looking at me now, all bare-chested and flushed, powerful, wasn't casual. There were no amusement in his expression, despite his smirk.
It was possessive.
"Didn't know you had started without me, husband," I said, letting a touch of silk slip into my voice, the kind I knew that could unsettle him.
His lips curved, slow and knowing.
"That's because," he replied lightly, "I had no interest in fighting my wife."
There was something dangerous in the way he said it. Something that made heat coil low in my stomach.
"But," he continued, tilting his head slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. "I do have someone who might help you work off all that adrenaline you've been carrying since this morning in your office."
My brows drew together, suspicion flickering, but he simply raised his hand.
"Come," he beckoned.
The room shifted the moment he spoke.
Men stepped back without hesitation, parting to create a clear path down the narrow steps toward the ring. No one questioned his authority. No one even lingered.
By the time I reached the edge, his opponent was already being pulled away, guided out by two of his men. He looked dazed, sand clinging to his skin, chest heaving.
Alex, however, he wasn't even breathing hard. But his eyes. They were still lit. Not wild, but focused.
Adrenaline still ran through him. I could see it in the slight flex of his jaw, the way his fingers opened and closed once at his sides, like he was deciding whether to reach for me or for another fight.
I stepped into the ring.
The sand shifting beneath my feet.
I took his hand.
His skin was warm. Slightly damp. Solid.
"If I'm not fighting you," I said, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze, "then who exactly am I fighting?"
Because there was no chance he'd let me spar with just anyone here. No. He already had someone chosen.
I let him pull me into the ring.
His hands slid around my waist, firm and territorial before he crashed his lips against mine. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't even subtle.
My arms came around his neck instinctively.
The kiss wasn't just about longing. It was a declaration. A reminder to every man in this room exactly who I belonged to, and who belonged to me.
When I finally pulled back, my hand rested against his chest, slick with sweat and heat. The weight of a dozen stares pressing against my skin, and for the first time since walking in, I felt it.
"So," I said evenly, "who do you have in mind?"
His mouth brushed near mine when he answered, his voice low enough that it felt almost intimate. "Do you remember," he murmured, "when they told you your old friend Joshua was buried in an unmarked grave?"
The name still struck like a blade, but I nodded once.
His finger slid beneath my chin, tipping my face up so I had no choice but to look at him.
"Well," he said softly, lips curling with something dark and satisfied, "he isn't."
My stomach dropped.
"The men you saw dragging him away that day?" he continued. "They were mine."
The room seemed to narrow.
"We caught him. Broke him. Put him back together just enough for you."
His thumb brushed my jaw, almost tender.
"For you."
My voice barely formed. "You knew...since we met again in London?"
"No." His eyes held mine, steady. "I questioned him. Took him apart piece by piece."
A pause.
"He's the one who told me who you really were."
The air left my lungs.
A faint, almost amused breath escaped him.
"Funny, isn't it?" he said quietly. "The man who killed our child...is the same man who led me to you."