Juliette
He warned me we were doomed from the start, and I should have listened. But some fires burn too hot to resist.
Now, I'm trapped in a vicious cycle of desire, tangled up in Areston's dangerous world. Every kiss, every touch pulls me deeper...
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Thud.
Thud. Thud.
Thud.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Thud. Thud.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
For the past thirty minutes, I've been waging a relentless war against the 200 lb. punching bag. Each blow from my gloves lands with unbridled force. The bag is yielding under the onslaught, contorting and wrapping around my fists as they burrow into its heart. Each punch is a release of pent-up fury, my boxing gloves acting as conduits of raw, untempered power.
Finally, with a punch that feels like it could split the earth, I send a shockwave through the gym. The echo of it hangs in the air as I collapse to my knees, momentarily defeated by my own unabated assault. I snatch up my water bottle, gulping down a mouthful and dousing my head with the rest, the cool liquid a brief respite from the heat of battle. Exhausted, I sprawl on the floor, my lungs heaving in a desperate quest for air as I stare at the mirrored ceiling above. It's not the fatigue burning my entire body. It's blinding rage.
I am missing my underground fighting days. The pulsating thump of adrenaline that used to course through my veins in that dimly lit arena. The roar of the crowd. The scent of sweat and adrenaline, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. The raw, unfiltered connection with my own primal instincts during those moments in the ring. The sweet taste of victory. The idea of living life on the edge.
I usually miss it all, but today, I'm missing it more. If it were not for the word I gave to her ladyship that I would never be in that place again, I would love to return there right now.
Nothing helps me shed the unwanted thoughts bothering me as fast as a punchy workout does. Torturing a submissive and having my rough ways with her comes in as a close second. The grueling workout has failed to do its job so far. Sex is absolutely out of the question. I can't fathom being with anyone other than my siren, whose captivatingly rare shade of emerald green gaze holds a seductive allure and changes color seamlessly to reflect the nuances of her ever-shifting emotions.
Nonna once spoke of a sorceress with emerald eyes, a temptress wielding her gaze like a weapon to ensnare men's souls and shatter them to pieces. Fairy tales, I thought, nothing but fanciful warnings. Yet, here I am, a living testament to that legend. Eleven years ago, my own green-eyed enchantress cast her spell on me, tearing my soul asunder. And now, against all odds, she has ravaged what little remained of me, the embers of a soul I believed had long since turned to ash.
As I close my eyes, the haunting vulnerability of her eyes invades me. A searing pain, like an indefatigable predator, has been tearing at me since. I had convinced myself that I am an unyielding fortress, impervious to her emotional state. I couldn't have been more wrong. Pushing her away from me felt like I was ripping a limb out of my body with my own hands. Even that kind of physical pain wouldn't have been as agonizing as I'm feeling right now from being wracked with this aching sense of loss.
