☆CHAPTER TEN - LUST☆

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He slammed his locker door.

With one hand massaging his face, his free hand moving to harshly dig into his duffel bag to pick up a clean navy towel to wipe down the excess sweat dripping down his hairline and nose and also to eliminate the dried blood stains. Today's match was proven to be more difficult than usual with the guy being bulkier but at the end, Harry reigned his title.

Carelessly throwing the towel away, he walked across the room to stare into the mirror. His mop of curls were wild and messy, his eyes bloodshot, bruises painting his jawline and neck, his tattoos glistened under the layer of perspiration, his eyes darkened and furious. He looked like a wild animal...which he practically was.

He scowled at his own reflection, both hating and loving how he looked. He knew he had it all — power, money and influence. He is Harry bloody Styles. The same motherfucker who can look at death and just laugh but he's also the same little boy who was forced to act like a man. Who was forced to suck up everything that happened to him. He stared at the scars covering his lower torso that were faint because his ink was more prominent and pleasing to look at. He wanted to burn that chapter of his life. Burn everything in his past and only focus ahead.

Just then, a knock disrupted his thoughts. He exhaled sharply, not in the mood to see anyone, "Who the fuck is it?" he snapped.

The door then creaked open, a small familiar voice being the last sound he expected to hear, "Hi."

He turned around swiftly, to meet Lennon standing there with a green plaid skirt and a white top. Her hair was down in its usual waves, her face adorned with a delicate veneer of makeup. She looked stunning as always.

"Grey," Harry spoke. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No," he responded immediately, mentally cursing himself for how desperate he sounded. Bloody hell, he's fucked.

She closed the metal door behind her slowly and approached him with careful steps. Once standing in front of him, she took in his bruised knuckles and slightly bloodied face. A wave of concern washed over her but she didn't inquire too much about it since she knew that Harry was going to downplay his pain and feelings. "You're hurt." she said quietly, her hand reaching up to gently caress his ruined skin.

"No sarcastic comments? Witty retorts? Damn, what have you done to Lennon?" Harry's attempt at making a joke was proven futile when Lennon didn't look amused. He was always shit at making jokes.

"You're hurt," she repeated.

He sighed, unconsciously leaning into her palm, seeking care and comfort, "I'll be fine. A couple of bruises, it's part of the job."

She pressed her lips in a thin line, not saying much and accepting his lame response. For now. She withdrew her hand away and Harry ignored the pang of disappointment he felt but didn't comment on it. She then turned around and took in the locker room, "It's...something, I guess?"

"It's underground boxing, grey. Obviously not luxurious but the money is the real deal. How did you get here, anyway?"

All the matches happen in various clubs sprawled across London. There are big bulky guards who protect the entrance, not letting outsiders in but Callahan is sneaky as shit and always finds a secret passage underground.

She faced him and that sheepish smile touched her lips, "Your friend Callahan helped me, he's really nice, by the way."

Harry snarled, "He's not my friend and he's not nice. He's just one of the few people I tolerate."

She gave him a look, "You're in a sour mood."

They continued to stare at each other, no words exchanged whatsoever. Grey meeting green. Her eyes were so captivating and magnetic, her irises glimmering under the imperceptible shine of the bulb hanging above them. His jaw clenched, his voice dropping an octave lower, "What are you doing here?"

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