Page 57 of Lone Wolf

“Do you think it ever goes away?” I ask. “The pain?”

Ariadne considers this. “No,” she says honestly. “But I think maybe we learn to build around it. Create new connections, new memories. Not to replace what we lost, but to make room for joy alongside the grief.”

The wisdom in her words surprises me—not because I doubt her intelligence, but because it’s so human, so emotionally intuitive.Thisis the woman beneath the ice, the one Grandmother tried to bury beneath layers of conditioning and control.

“Is that what you’re doing with your mom? Building something new?”

She nods. “I guess I’m trying to. It’s not easy. There’s so much lost time between us, so many years we can’t get back. But she…she never stopped loving me. Even when she thought I was dead. And even when I came back and pushed her away.” Her voice catches slightly. “I don’t know if I deserve that kind of love, but I’m starting to think maybe I should try to be worthy of it.”

“Youareworthy of it,” I say fiercely.

A small smile touches her lips. “You always see the best in people.”

“Not all people. But you, definitely.”

Our eyes meet, and that electric thing passes between us. Ariadne stands suddenly, restless energy emanating from her. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go to the training room.”

“You want to train? Now?” I laugh.

“I need to move. To process some of this energy.”

I understand that feeling all too well. There’s something about physical exertion that helps clear the mind, makes emotional turmoil more manageable. So I follow her into the mansion and down to the training room, which is blissfully empty at this dinner hour.

We don’t speak as we warm up, stretching muscles still tense from the day’s events. Then we move to the mats, circling each other in a familiar dance. There’s no real aggression in our movements—this isn’t about dominance or proving a point. It’s about communication, about speaking in a language all our own, a language that feels safer than words.

Ariadne strikes first, a testing jab that I easily block. I counter with a low kick that she sidesteps with fluid grace. We builda rhythm, movements growing more complex but never losing that sense of controlled conversation.

“You’re getting better,” she says, dodging a combination I throw at her.

“I had a good teacher.”

A smile flickers across her face as she feints left, then sweeps my legs out from under me. I go down but roll immediately back to my feet, laughing despite myself.

“Still got some tricks up your sleeve, I see.”

“Always.”

We continue like this, trading blows that never quite connect with full force, testing and challenging each other without truly trying to win. It’s different from our previous sparring sessions—no audience to perform for, no point to prove. Just the two of us, moving together in a dance that feels increasingly intimate.

At some point, the dynamic shifts. A block turns into a touch that lingers. A grip softens from restraint to caress. Our breathing quickens, but not just from exertion. When Ariadne pins me against the wall, her forearm across my collarbone, neither of us moves to break the hold.

“You’re the only person who sees me,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “The real me. Not the weapon Grandmother created. Not the broken girl my mother lost. Just…me.”

“I do,” I tell her truthfully. “And you’re the only one who saw the pain underneath all my jokes and laughter.”

Her eyes search mine, and whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her. She leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away ifI want to. But of course I don’t want to. I meet her halfway, capturing her lips with mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens into something hungrier, more desperate.

My hands find her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. Her body is warm and solid against mine, anchoring me in the present when my thoughts want to scatter like leaves in the wind.

“We should...” I begin, but lose my train of thought as her mouth moves to my neck, tracing a path of fire along my pulse point.

“Shower,” she suggests against my skin. “We’re both sweaty. We could get clean…and dirty, too.”

I laugh breathlessly. “Is that your best line?”

She pulls back enough to look me in the eyes, a rare playfulness dancing in her gaze. “Is it working?”

“Uh, yes,” I tell her, tugging her toward the locker rooms. “Hell-fucking-yes.”

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