Page 65 of Goldsin

It’s the place where I can release all the anger and frustration building up inside of me day after day. Hour after hour.

My shadow dances in the afternoon sunrays as I pound away at the brown punching bag hanging from the ceiling. My fists pulse in time with each thud against the heavy leather, while sweat drips down my face, soaking into the waistband of my sweatpants.

All the rage I feel toward Aurelia and her stubborn refusal to tell me why she killed DeMarco oozes out of me.

Slowly. One punch after the other.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, gritting my teeth.

She’s just as stubborn as I am, and it drives me insane.

I know what she’s hiding ... but goddamn it, I just want her to trust me enough to tell me herself. I’m not asking too much.

I’m five punches into my set when I hear the irritating voice of my best friend.

“Oi.” Emeric saunters in, beaming his thanks for whoever was latched around his dick this morning. “You’re really giving that bag a beating, mate. What’s got you so riled up?”

Panting, I stop my assault on the punching bag and grab the towel I left on the floor, dabbing at the beads of sweat trailing down my neck.

Sometimes I forget how irritatingly perceptive this asshole can be. He’s always able to guess when something is upsetting me. I take it that’s what makes a best friend, but even if we weren’t friends, I know he’d be able to read me like a book. We’re each other’s missing piece.

That sounds like a cliché, but I don’t give a fuck. This guy is my right-hand man. We’ve been friends since we were in diapers.

Emeric’s family moved here from Manchester, England, seeking a new life as members of the Inferno Consortium. His father wanted to expand his wine business, Grimward Manor Vineyards, in ways that couldn’t be achieved without getting his hands dirty.

But I have my mother to thank for our friendship, because it’s thanks to her and Lady Grimward that I got to meet this shithead. Emeric isn’t just my best friend; he’s closer than blood could ever make us.

He knows about the way Lucian treats my mother—treatsme. He’s been by my side through everything, the closest thing I have to a brother outside of Adrian.

He is family. More so than my actual family.

“Adrian and Aurelia this morning.” I throw the towelback to the floor and go for the water bottle instead. “They are driving me insane.”

“Ah yes, the lovely Aurelia.” He leans against the wall, and a devilish glint appears in his eyes as he asks, “How’s your little game with her going? Still trying to break down her walls?”

“Did some damage here and there.” I smirk at him even though the muscles in my neck strain at hearing her name. I have a lot to do this morning, with my father breathing his orders down my neck, yet I’ll need to throw some punches for a few more hours to ease my nerves.

I clench my fingers around my bottle and spray some water over my face, combing my hair back with my fingers. “How are things going with Eleanora? You should have her teach Aurelia some of her tricks.”

Emeric’s face darkens slightly at my words. I swear I love the guy deep down.

“Don’t worry about me, mate,” he says dismissively before averting the conversation from my little comment, knowing damn well it would be useless to go at it. “I’m just enjoying our time together for however long it lasts.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Come on, Emeric,” I drawl, enjoying the way his cheeks redden, jaw clenching. “Everyone can see you’re smitten with her,mate.”

“Really, Julian?” He scoffs. Emeric hates it when I talk back in British. He thinks I do it to mess with him. He’s right. “We’re fuck buddies, nothing more.”

Ah, come on.

“Really?” is all I say, not quite believing him. “Anyone with two eyes can see the tension brewing between youtwo.” I throw the bottle at his chest, and he catches it, a chuckle reverberating around the gym.

Emeric hesitates—a rare occurrence for someone as talkative as him. He looks around the room, anywhere but at me, before silently admitting, “It doesn’t matter ...” He presses his lips together, contemplating his next words. No—more like digging them deep within him before pushing them out. “Even if there was ... even if there was more to this,”—he looks me dead in the eye—“it wouldn’t change anything.”

I stay quiet, my brow furrowing as I wait for him to continue. I know if I push him for answers, it’ll only take him longer to tell me.

“Her parents have arranged for her to marry some Italian prick next year, so whatever this is between us, it’ll be over soon enough.”

“What? Eleanora’s getting married? To who?”

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