Fighting Fate by Scarlett Finn

floor she found no sign of a key for the front door, or one for the drawer of knives.
    Making a break for it now might be her only chance, but she did wish she’d had some more time to prepare and regain her strength. Upstairs, Bruno’s bedroom door was locked as was the other bedroom and Dax’s room held no sign of exit either; the walk-in closet was locked too. One of the men had to be carrying the key on them or they were hidden somewhere that she would never find them.
    If she couldn’t get out of the house then she’d never be able to get into the car that stood outside, not without finding the keys. Without transport of her own, her captors would catch up to her pretty quickly. In her time undressing Dax and tidying up she had never seen keys. Finding out where they were kept became her next goal, and for that she’d have to get closer to the man who shared her bed.
    Finding Dax was a piece of cake, he was where he always was, downstairs. Admitting to herself that the concept of going back into that basement voluntarily was distasteful, she bolstered her gumption and headed for the door. She would never be able to win Dax’s sympathy or assistance if she allowed him to maintain distance, so she had to step into his world, into his personal space, which she knew would be out of his comfort zone.
    But if she could show him that she was human, and that this detached behaviour was unacceptable, there was a chance that Dax would be willing to set her free or help her escape. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Bruno wasn’t ever going to be a man who might consider doing that for her.
    Descending the stairs into the basement, she could hear the thump of fists hitting leather and the occasional sniff or breath coming from a man. When she went lower, she paused at the vision he made. Wearing nothing but black shorts and black straps on his hands, she watched Dax throw one punch and then another, he stayed loose, keeping his hands near his face and his elbows in close to his body. The sheen of sweat across his back and arms made her think about how his skin had felt under her fingertips in the shower when water cascaded over both of their naked bodies.
    His fist flew out and made contact with the black punching bag that hung from the ceiling at the head of the basement gym, then he slid back in an expert manoeuvre and threw another two punches, one with each hand in quick succession. The rough callouses and intersecting scars on his knuckles and hands made sense now. She’d noticed them when they were together in bed, but hadn’t asked about their origin, now she didn’t need to.
    He sensed her and stopped his training to straighten up. Tensing to turn, he glared over his shoulder at her figure on the darkened stairway. Still, the blue of those eyes shot agony into her, because such a pure colour wasn’t meant to be so impersonal, yet in him it was.
    His eyes were like icebergs on the sea, powerful and formidable, but also lonely, isolated out on the ocean without a place to connect with or to call home. Drifting out on the open water epitomised Dax, and she realised then her own life had been much the same way – out there and alone. She wondered if she was as hard as he was, or if she wasn’t, what he’d been through to make him so disconnected.
    ‘Where’s Bruno?’ he asked.
    ‘Sleeping,’ she replied, continuing down the stairs and toward him.
    He began to unfasten the hand straps from his hands. ‘And you’re still here?’
    ‘I couldn’t get out. The door is locked.’
    ‘No one ever taught you how to pick a lock?’
    She shook her head. ‘But I’m up for a lesson if you want to give me one.’
    ‘I don’t have the patience to be a teacher,’ he said, tossing the straps to the bench beside him then stretching out his fingers.
    ‘Did you used to be a boxer?’ she asked him, taking one of his hands. She held it open in front of her chest and began to massage his