Chapter 358: Training

NOAH

The home gym was massive, a bright, echoing room that Cassian had sought out on the lower floor of the villa just because he couldn’t stand the thought of resting like a normal human being.

Thick black mats covered the floor, and weights gleamed against the mirrors on the far wall. It was the kind of setup built by a man who didn’t understand the concept of waiting for a doctor’s permission.

I was tucked completely into the corner, swallowed by a low leather couch that felt entirely too expensive for a room meant for sweat.

In my hands, a large plastic cup held a peach lemonade, wildly sweet and bright in color... definitely not alcoholic, given that I still had to keep half an eye on the medical chart in my head... with a green straw that I kept bobbing up and down against the ice.

Next to my thigh sat a huge ceramic bowl piled high with sticky garlic chicken wings and a smaller bowl of salted popcorn.

It seemed that Mrs. Chen, had decided the moment she saw me that I looked starved and required constant feeding if I was going to survive this particular called Cassian Wolfe.

It had been exactly two days since cassian’s discharge from the hospital.

Two days of being locked inside this sprawling estate, and honestly, my body was currently filing several extensive complaints.

Mostly from the waist down. There was a dull, heavy ache through my ass, hips and thighs that served as a constant, vivid reminder that Cassian Wolfe didn’t recover in a normal, straight fashion.

He recovered by reclaiming every single inch of his territory, repeatedly and with an absolute lack of mercy, until the mattress felt like a battleground and I was babbling nonsense while making a mess for the hundredth time.

The color of my tracksuit was pulled up high, but if I tilted my head even an inch to the mirror across the room, I could see the edge of a deep plum-colored mark right where my shoulder met my neck.

There were more hidden beneath the dark fabric of my cloth.

And on Cassian’s back, if the light hit him just right when he turned, there were faint, thin red lines from my own fingernails... a tiny, private record of the last forty-eight hours that I was secretly very proud of.

There was a massive drawer of paperwork waiting for me upstairs, an entire mountain of digital logs and scheduling files from the time he’d women up, but every time I brought it up, Cassian would just look at me and say, "Don’t worry about it." Like that single sentence cleared my conscience.

So, realistically, I was currently being paid an obscene amount of money to sit on a leather couch, eat fried chicken, and watch my shirtless boss move around a rubber mat.

It felt wildly unfair. Even for a well-deserved break after nearly losing my mind with worry, this was pushing it.

At the center of the mat, the show was in full swing.

Cassian wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a pair of sweatpants hung low on his hips, the thick white drawstring dangling loose.

The weight loss from his weeks in the hospital bed was still there if you looked closely, but the hard, rolling muscle underneath his skin was coming back with a vengeance.

Sweat made the dark ink across his chest gleam under the fluorescent lights, catching on the jagged white lines of the surgical scars over his torso.

Opposite him stood the head of his personal security detail. I’d seen him around the grounds at least a dozen times, but my brain had a very strict, limited amount of braincells, and approximately ninety-nine percent of it was currently allocated to tracking the way the light hit Cassian’s stomach when he breathed.

The security guy was built like a reinforced steel door, broad-shouldered and heavy-set, the kind of person who could probably run through a brick wall without blinking.

"Don’t hold back," Cassian said, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly tone that always made the hair on my arms stand up.

He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, his fists raised up near his jaw.

The giant security head looked visibly stressed. "Sir, you were just discharged two days ago."

"I know I was," Cassian shot back, his head snapping to the side as he shook out his shoulders. "Hit me properly."

I took a slow sip through my straw, my eyes locked on the curve of Cassian’s lower back as he shifted his weight.

He’s going to tear something, I thought, my internal panic button faintly buzzing. He is absolutely going to open those stitches, and then the doctor’s are going to have to sew him back up while his father glares at me probably. Why is he like this? Why is he so stubborn? And more importantly, why does he look incredibly hot when he’s being completely reckless?

The exchange started small.

The big guard threw a cautious, looping left hook that Cassian didn’t even bother to block; he just slipped his head underneath the arc, his bare feet sliding smoothly across the rubber mat.

But the guard was still clearly pulling his punches, his movements stiff and hesitant, terrified of being the guy who sent the boss back to the intensive care unit.

Cassian noticed it immediately. His brows drew together, a dark, sharp irritation settling over his face as he blocked a remarkably soft jab with his forearm.

"Stop treating me like I’m made of glass," Cassian barked, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "If you don’t start swinging, I’ll find someone who will."

The security head took a slow breath, his shoulders dropping as a look of grim resignation crossed his face. He nodded once. Then, he actually threw his weight into his stance.

A collection of off-duty guards had gathered around the edges of the room, sitting on equipment benches or leaning against the weight racks.

They were watching with that loose, rumbling energy of men who treated a fistfight like afternoon television.

A few low murmurs of approval went up as the big guard began to move faster, his heavy boots thudding against the mat.