Page 55 of Celestial Combat

Two weeks since I’d let Zane see more of me than I ever intended.

Two weeks since I hesitated.

My jaw clenched as I shook the thought from my mind, adjusting the strap of my bag as I made my way to the locker rooms.

“Kali.”

I stopped. Didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

His voice was deep, steady, cutting through the space like a blade. It sent a ripple down my spine, one I refused to acknowledge as I exhaled through my nose and turned to face him.

Zane stood a few feet away, watching me with the same unreadable expression I’d come to despise. The kind that told me, whatever it was, I wouldn’t like it.

He took a slow step forward, his eyes never leaving mine.

I stiffened, every muscle in my body locking in place.

His head tilted slightly, dark eyes scanning me like I was something to be figured out. “You hesitated with the knife.”

A slow exhale left my lips, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.

“So?”

Zane’s lips twitched, almost in amusement. “So, you need to learn how to shoot.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me.” His tone didn’t waver.

I shook my head. “I don’t use guns.”

It was an old rule of the Su Family’s Japanese roots. One my late grandfather strongly believed in, and I too followed. My father and brother had distanced themselves from the East and the Yakuza. Not me.

“Maybe you should.”

My jaw clenched. “No.”

Zane didn’t move. Just watched me, his silence heavier than words. I could feel the weight of his stare pressing into me, reading everything I wasn’t saying.

“If you freeze again, the next man won’t give you the chance to hesitate.” Zane took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough for only me to hear. “You don’t want to kill? Fine. Then learn how to make sure you don’t get killed.”

The words lodged deep.

I hated that he was right.

I hated that I was considering it.

But what I hated the most, was that Zane always knew exactly what buttons to press to get me to sayyes.

The silence stretched between us as we moved through Python’s pristine main floor, Zane leading the way.

We stepped into his front office – sleek, dark wood, cool air scented faintly of leather and whiskey. Without a word, he moved toward the private elevator at the back of the room. A single press of a button, and the doors slid open.

I hesitated.

A flicker of something – awareness, uncertainty – ran through me as I stepped inside. Zane followed, the space instantly feeling smaller, heavier, as the doors sealed us in.

The hum of the elevator filled the space between us, the dim glow of the overhead light casting shadows against Zane’s sharp features.

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