The home gym of the Blackwood estate was in the basement—a converted wine cellar that smelled of rubber mats and iron. It was cool, dark, and soundproof.
Sunday morning at 8:00 AM found Damon Blackwood lying on the bench press, staring up at the ceiling.
He had loaded the bar with three hundred pounds—more than his usual warm-up. He needed the weight. He needed to feel something heavy crushing him down so he could fight against it. It was the only way to silence the voice in his head that kept whispering "Mine" on a loop.
He gripped the knurled steel, inhaling sharply. He lowered the bar to his chest, his triceps straining, then pushed it back up with an explosive grunt.
One.
He thought about the terrace. The way Leo looked in the moonlight.
Two.
He thought about the car ride. The warmth of Leo's hand interlaced with his. The secret pinky promise while his wife slept inches away.
Three.
He thought about the look in Leo's eyes when he whispered "Yours."
