Naomi’s POV

The training room smelled of leather and chalk and the faintest trace of his cologne. Every morning for the past week, Cassian had brought me here before the rest of the house was awake.

Today felt different.

He tossed a pair of fingerless gloves toward me. “On,” he said. His voice was clipped but not unkind. “You’ll thank me later.”

I slipped them over my hands. The leather was stiff at first, then warmed against my skin.

My palms still bore faint scars from years of scrubbing marble floors and carrying heavy trays. Seeing them wrapped up in black gloves felt like putting on someone else’s life.

“Feet...