Devil's Desire [h.s.]

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

"He's mean."

Olivia landed on the mat with a grunt, burying her face in her wrapped palms. Her hands muffled her screams. I laughed as I sunk down next to her, nudging her ribs with my elbow. She was panting when she finally turned to look at me.

"River," she said. "I'm serious. I can't do this. He's a dick. An asshole. He's doing this on purpose."

We'd been training with Harry for the better part of three weeks now. As soon as he'd agreed to follow through with the plan, the first thing he'd insisted on was Olivia and I be better equipped in self-defence. For her, it had been almost entirely unwillingly. For me, I was more than prepared, having already gone through this charade once. Now, after almost a dozen sessions, Olivia looked ready to kill herself. Much like I'd been when I'd first met him and had been forced to do the same.

"He's mean," she repeated, her eyes tracking my boyfriend as he stalked across the small gym. "Rivvy, I mean, seriously. You have to admit—" she turned to look at me, aghast, "—he is not this way with you."

"He was," I admitted and leant back on one of my palms. "Seriously. Compared to the way we used to train when I first met him, he's going easy on you."

"That's a lie."

"It's not," I muttered with a roll of my eyes. "He used to be... really mean to me."

"That's incredibly hard to believe," Olivia scoffed. She was still struggling to catch her breath. Her and Harry had been sparring for almost a half hour. She'd taken it like a champ whenever he'd snapped at her or nudged a knee, or an elbow, or a palm against a weak spot that sent her tumbling toward the mats. Only for him to snarl and tell her to get back up, that he was going easy on her. Which she did, ever the trouper, only to go crashing back down again moments later. "River, there's no way he acted like this with you. That man is so in love with you, I couldn't even picture him—"

"He made me cry," I said and shot her a clipped smile. "One of the first times we trained together, he made me cry. It's... he just wants to make sure you can handle yourself. It isn't anything personal, I promise." Olivia was looking at me as I went on, "Liv, he's been in this line of work. He knows what we're going to be up against. He wants to make sure we can look out for ourselves."

Olivia was silent for a moment. "He made you cry?"

I was suddenly bristling, defensive. "He—well, not in the way you think. He was looking out for me. Wanted to make sure I was prepared." When she didn't respond, I said, "And it was warranted. When I was in Italy—"

"What? You were in Italy?"

"I..." my voice wavered, and I winced. "Yeah. Yes. I was in Italy and helped him with a job—"

"You what?"

"It's," I shrugged, "a long story. I'll tell you later."

Olivia didn't seem entirely convinced. She shifted on the mats and let her legs fall flat, head burrowed close to her knees again.

I glanced over at Harry, who was currently sparring with Zayn. Gloved hands raised, shifting from foot-to-foot, exhaling sharp breaths through his nose. He moved with graceful ease, deflecting every hit without so much as a blink. The conditioning so thoroughly ingrained in him that it seemed to flow through his blood, an extension of his very being.

He never hit first, I noticed. Not with Zayn, Louis, or Morgan, at least. Whether it was intentional or not, I wasn't sure. Just something I'd noticed the more we worked with him. That he'd stand, braced, circling his opponent like prey, engaging only when a fist came flying in his direction. The very opposite of what he'd drilled into my head the many months I'd known him–hit first, hit harder