45. Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Four

A n affair? Twenty one years ago…

A lump has formed in my throat as I snap the diary closed. If anyone had been unfaithful, I might have believed it of Nixon. Wyatt has suggested as much. He has always traveled for work, and I'm accustomed to his lack of communication whilst away. A little out-of-sight, out-of-mind. Although when he was home, we were the center of his universe. But my mom? There's no way.

Yet she wrote about it. Detailed it. Does Nixon even know, or was this a secret mom took to her grave? Now I know too, and I can't unsee the words echoing through my skull.

I'm pregnant.

Fuck, I hate to even think it, but poor Wyatt. He already feels so hard-done by. Like he doesn't belong. This would break the rocky foundations he still stands on, even though I know he would rather sink in his ship of denial than admit he's affected. More than that, if he isn't Nixon's son, what would happen to the trust fund Wyatt lives on? The same trust fund he uses to pay for Dax's tuition. It's that thought alone that cements my decision to keep this secret to myself. It's what my mom wanted; it's what I'll honor.

Numbness takes over my entire body. Despite the decision I've made, I lie still in bed, shaken to my core. There will be no sleeping for me tonight. I've yet to change out of the sweatpants and t-shirt I threw on after my shower, my hair crinkling at the ends from air drying. I couldn't wait to start reading mom's diary; now I wish I hadn't bothered.

Slipping out of bed, I rifle through my bags and find my ballet shoes. It's been too long since I've danced, since I've escaped from the reality I've been thrust into. I take the compression socks as an afterthought. I'll relish the burn of exertion in the morning, but I can't be sloppy now. When I return to Waversea, my schedule will be overrun with practices for the showcase. For one last time, for tonight, I want to dance for the escape.

The manor is still. Quiet. I've taken this route a thousand times, probably more. Too many nights of broken sleep needing to be soothed away. On the bottom floor of the manor, I take the hallway tucked behind the staircase, permitting myself entry to the last room on the left. The dance studio.

A figure inside shifts quickly. My body jolts. Braced on a smattering of foam mats with his back to me, I hold a hand over my own throat, stifling the scream that almost escaped me. Counting his sit-ups in harsh whispers, his lightly tanned skin glistening. Sensing me, he suddenly stills in an upright position and twists to glare over his shoulder. The one person I could have done without seeing tonight and he's right there-brooding expression, clenched muscle and all.

"Wyatt, fuck ," I curse before I can catch myself. A tidal wave of guilt hits me, knocking the breath from my lungs. He stares at me, crystal green eyes narrowed in question. I have questions too, like how much would he hate me if he knew Nixon chose to adopt me, but would probably disown Wyatt if he knew the truth. It's too much to bear. I turn away, stepping back into the hallway. Wyatt snorts.

"What? One blow-up with Garrett and you're suddenly wary of me. You haven't been deterred before." I peer back as his attention moves away from me. Kicking his legs out beneath him, he alternates to push-ups. The definition of his muscle is something else, each outline deeply ingrained. I find myself staring, clenching the ballet shoes in my hands. I can't go back to my room. I can't be left to stew in my own thoughts for that long. A distraction is what I was seeking, and I've found one .

"I can't sleep," I announce in way of explanation. Closing the door with myself inside, I lick my lips, unable to satisfy my wandering eyes. The shorts on his lower half are baggy, slipping haphazardly up his beefy thighs. He's naked otherwise, only coated in sweat and ink, the decayed skull on his calf. Finishing his set, he's suddenly up on his feet and facing me.

"Holy…dragon," the air rushes out of my lungs. Covering Wyatt's front, a dragon sprawls from chest to groin, its mouth open in a roar and impressive detail carved into every scale. Smoke encases the beast, trickling over Wyatt's collar bone where I've noticed it before. The only color is a starkly bright yellow in the eyes, otherwise the entire piece is hauntingly monochrome and exquisitely shaded. Wyatt clenches his jaw, looking anywhere that isn't my face.

"You couldn't sleep," he parrots back, his gaze dropping to my hands. "And you thought you'd prance about in the dead of night? Didn't you know the shadows in here can't be removed so easily." Tapping his temple with one finger, I'm jarringly reminded of his disdain for me, and of all the reasons I should feel the same. Jutting out my chin, I adopt a stronger posture.

"Well, you've never seen me dance."

Wyatt huffs through his nose. "How about a proper outlet?" Holding his arms wide, he gestures to the mats he's spread across the studio floor. I stare blankly. Wyatt is undeterred from whatever is happening here, bracing himself in a fighting position with his fists raised. It's my turn to snort.

"You want to fight with me? I thought that's what we've been doing this entire time."

"I want to see what skills you actually possess when not catching me off-guard with a rogue swing." He's referring to the jaw punch in his frat house kitchen. I wouldn't call it anything but a decent punch personally. I tilt my head back and forth, mentally weighing up the pros and cons. Eventually, I settle on the knowledge that if I leave here with even the tiniest bruise, the Shadowed Souls would come down on their leader like a ton of bricks.

Sounds good to me.

Dropping my ballet shoes aside and kicking the bootie slippers off my feet, I join him on the mats. "Aren't there gloves and pads in the gym?" A strange, sideways smirk sits upon his mouth, and that's when I decide he's either high, drunk or still starved of oxygen from Garrett choking him out. The Wyatt I usually get on a daily basis would have rushed forward with a hard jab to my ribs, raining pain down until I was left crippled on the floor with no less of a broken leg. But apparently, this Wyatt doesn't do that.

I throw the first hit, a tap really on the inside of his raised arm. A test for how he'd react and the result is disappointing. Wyatt starts a dance of his own, sidestepping until we're slowly circling. The studio is brightly lit but that doesn't prevent darkness lurking in every corner, the scent of dust thick in the air. No one has been in here, whether to clean or otherwise. I move on silent feet, every muscle tensed, every sense on high alert for his next move. For the moment he stops seeing this as a cute little game and decides to attack. My heart pounds with a mix of adrenaline and something else—something I refuse to acknowledge.

A smug smirk plays on his lips. He's as infuriatingly handsome as ever, his dark hair tousled, his green eyes glinting with a challenge. The sight of him like this, looking at me this way, sends a jolt of electricity through me, an undercurrent which heightens my senses. It's all so wrong, so foreign, but I'll be damned if I lose his attention now.

Wyatt lunges, and I sidestep, our bodies brushing for a split second—a flash of heat that I feel down to my core. I counter with a swift strike to his abs, but he blocks it effortlessly, briefly bringing our faces inches apart. I can feel his breath on my skin, so close it's almost suffocating.

"You're holding back," he taunts, his eyes locking onto mine, daring me.

I growl, pushing him away with all my strength, creating a few feet of distance. "I'm just getting started." I launch another attack quickly, our movements fluid, almost synchronized. Every strike is a clash of wills, each touch not aimed to hurt but to send sparks flying. My mind is unfocused, confused.

He catches my wrist, twisting me around and pinning me against his hard chest. I struggle, but his grip is like iron. His face is so close to the curve of my neck, his warmth colliding into mine with a mix of anger and something else, something darker, more primal.

"You're infuriating," I hiss, but my voice lacks conviction.

"And you're irresistible," he counters, his lips brushing my neck with the faintest touch. I freeze, stilling all protests. Perhaps Wyatt will assume my rigidness is fear, not spurred by curiosity. Why is Wyatt giving me his attention now? What's changed?

"Why do you always have to make things so difficult?" he murmurs, his voice husky. My heart hammers against my ribcage, the irony of his words igniting a fire within me. Sure, I'm the one making things difficult, when Wyatt's temper runs from scolding hot to ice cold, the trigger unknown.

I use his momentary distraction to my advantage. Spinning into his body, I bring my knee up sharply, aiming for his side. He grunts, the hold loosening just enough for me to slip free. I spin around, my fist sailing through the air, but he dodges, catching my wrist again. This time, he pulls me close, our bodies colliding .

Our faces are inches apart, both stunned to be so close. For once, the clench of Wyatt's jaw isn't present, leaving his face slack and lips slightly parted as he pants. The tension is unbearable, a magnetic pull. Inside, I'm screaming for the door to open. For someone to interrupt and knock some sense into us. This shouldn't be happening, but I'm too weak to stop it. Wyatt's eyes, beautifully green and blown to shit, flick to my lips, and for a moment, everything else fades away. There's only the two of us, locked in a strained embrace, both fighting for control in more ways than one.

This isn't right. If Wyatt doesn't hate me, I don't know where I sit in the world. Worse than that, if Wyatt isn't being an asshole, I have no reason to dislike him. What am I supposed to do then? Make small talk in passing, send him a Christmas card, sit for awkward family photos? I wish I knew what he was thinking. What possessed him to not take one look at me and storm away like usual. It's easier that way. Simpler if we both know where we stand, and in the times Wyatt fails to uphold his side of our decade-long war, I suppose I'll have to.

Shoving him away again, I snap us both back to the cold reality we've created. He dances around, taunting me like a bull with a target. I duck low, using my knees and fists at his core while he twists away, rarely putting his hands on me. It's different now—charged with an intensity that goes beyond the physical. Every move, every fleeting touch, is laced with an undercurrent of desire. I hate him for it, hate the way he gets under my skin, hate him for the fire he ignites in me.

"Your self-defense teacher needs firing." Wyatt's lips curl into a damnable smirk, his body thrumming with confidence or recklessness. I've yet to decide.

"I could hurt you in so many ways if I deemed it worthwhile." My voice is too breathy, too affected. Coming to a standstill, I know this can't go on any further, despite the playfulness I wish I saw in Wyatt more often.

"Ha!" he laughs, striding towards me. His dragon tattoo seems to breathe in time with the rise and fall of his solid chest, his abs tight and that deeply engrained V leading to his waistband - nope, not going there. The image of a cocky asshole who loves dangling that carrot of hope in front of me, he makes the mistake of sliding his hands into his pockets. "I would pay millions to see you try."

"Suit yourself." I half shrug, snapping my arm out. No flourish, no big swing for him to see coming a mile away. My fist smashes into Wyatt's nose, the crunch of bone beneath knuckle ringing through the studio. I swiftly stand back, out of arm's reach, awaiting the fallout.

"Will that be cash or card? I don't trust your cheques not to bounce." I flutter my eyes innocently. And there it is. The line is redrawn. Wyatt holds his nose, blood pouring in thick rivets down his arm, following the network of veins pulsing there. His eyes grow hard, the clench of his jaw returning. A tremor of fear that I should have felt all along finally sparks to life, causing a shiver to ripple down my back.

"Do you feel protected now?" Wyatt asks through bloodied teeth. My brows knit together, the makings of a trap closing in around me.

"What?" I swallow hard.

"Your wellbeing is paramount. That's what my father said, and then left you in my care. You can run back and tell him I've done my job."

"So that's what this was? A way for you to score points?" Wyatt moves suddenly, closing the distance between us while I force my feet to stay grounded. Grabbing the hem of my t-shirt, he tears the fabric in two large hands, spraying blood over my chest in the process. Freeing the material from my abdomen, he holds it over his nose, glaring at me with furious eyes.

"Do I look like I give a fuck about scoring points?!" He's in my personal space, looking down on me. The white fabric in his hand quickly becomes blood red. "My men can cuddle you, stroke your hair and tell you that you're safe. But who is actually helping to train you? To keep you on edge, aware of the dangers lurking nearby? Wake the fuck up Avery."

Shoving past me with the full weight of his shoulder, I stand stunned. Speckled with blood, left confused, conflicted and with the sinking feeling of heartbreak weighing me down. I can't tell him. It's not my place. In his own warped, twisted mind, Wyatt thinks he's following his father's instructions. All the while, that man may not even be his real father.