Page 27 of Dublin Beast

“You coming up?” Anton is standing in the elevator, holding the door so it doesn’t close.

I blink and drag my gaze back to him, guilt knotting my cheeseburger into a rock in my gut. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you in the morning.”

Anton gives me a look and frowns. “You’re not going to go out and get yourself into trouble, are you?”

I smirk. “Me? Never. No. I’m not leaving the hotel, I swear.”

The doors slide shut, and I turn toward the gym.

The moment I push open the door, I find him over by the wall of floor-length mirrors. He’s shirtless, shadowboxing with his reflection, his fists cutting through the air in a steady rhythm.

Oh, hell.

The muscles in his back ripple as he moves, each twist and flex a display of raw power. His shoulders, broad and adorned with tattoos and a few scars, bunch and release as he throws a precise, practiced combination—jab, cross, uppercut.

His breath is measured, but the aggression behind each movement is unmistakable.

He’s fighting something that isn’t there.

Or maybesomeone.

I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the controlled violence play out. He’s not just training. He’s beating the tar out of his imaginary opponent.

“I hope I’m not the one you’re envisioning, but I’d understand if I was.”

Bryan’s gaze flicks to meet mine in the reflection, but his flying fists don’t even falter. “I don’t hit women, no matter how much they annoy me.”

“Noble. But youareupset with me.”

He grunts. “No. I’m upset. Given the mountain of shite I’m dealin’ with, yer not even a factor.”

I push off the door and walk further in. “Then maybe you need more from a workout than punching air.”

He slows his movements and drops his stance. “I just told ye, I don’t hit women.”

I stride across the gym floor toward the pads and gloves on the shelf. “And I told you—I can hold my own. I grew up around testosterone-driven anger. I’m not afraid of it—or of you.”

His lips press into a thin line. “Then yer not as bright as ye think ye are.”

Ignoring him, I study the rack of equipment and slide my hands into a pair of curved punching pads. They’re not as good a quality as the ones my brothers train with, but they’re in a hotel gym, so I’m not surprised.

Swinging my arms, I loosen my shoulders, then turn back to him and step into his space. “I’ll call it. You do it.”

He looks down at me, skeptical. “Ye know how to call boxing drills, do ye?”

I smirk. “Among other things.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse, but then he exhales sharply and nods. “Grand. Have at it.”

I lift my hands, falling into a ready stance. He mirrors me, and then I get us started. “Jab cross combo.”

He throws a slow jab, and I arch a brow. “Don’t patronize me, Irish. You’ll hurt me if you don’t trust me.”

“And why the fuck would I trust ye? I don’t even know ye.”

Fair.I raise my palms, shifting my weight smoothly. He follows with a cross. I roll my shoulder, letting it glance past me.

Over and over, I call the drill, and he responds. His strikes come faster, testing my reflexes, and I meet each one with a block, a dodge, or a counter.

---