Two weeks disappeared faster than I expected.
The routine settled in so smoothly it felt dangerous. Dangerous because routines make you comfortable, and comfort makes you sloppy. But I couldn’t deny the progress.
Every morning at 6:30, I’d wake to my alarm and head downstairs to the gym where Sloane waited. She’d already be stretching, pink ponytail swaying, and she’d give that competitive grin that made my heart do stupid things.
"Morning, slowpoke."
"I’m literally on ti."
"Barely counts."
Then she’d try to kill for ninety minutes.
Hand-to-hand drills until my muscles scread. Spectral Reach exercises where I’d lift progressively heavier objects while maintaining precision. Blitz training where I’d dash across the room, redirecting mid-movent while she threw tennis balls at my head.
My stats climbed steadily. Strength hit thirty-two. Agility pushed to thirty-four. Dexterity reached thirty-six. Endurance sat at forty now, probably because I was training twice as hard and sleeping half as much.
Sloane noticed the improvents. She’d watch complete exercises that would’ve wrecked two weeks ago, her blue eyes sharp with sothing between pride and suspicion.
"You’re getting faster," she said one morning after I managed to dodge three of her throws in a row. "Like, noticeably faster than yesterday."
"Good coaching," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead.
"Bullshit. Nobody progresses this quickly without..." She trailed off, chewing her bottom lip. "Your Aspect must be developing faster than normal manifestations."
"Maybe that’s what late bloors do. Make up for lost ti."
She didn’t look convinced, but she dropped it.
After training, I’d shower and head to the kitchen. Breakfast beca my responsibility, part of our deal. I’d cook while Sloane recovered upstairs, and Diane would appear around seven in full CEO mode.
Charcoal skirt. Silk blouse. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless.
She’d sit at the island with her coffee and tablet, reviewing overnight emails like she hadn’t spent the previous night screaming my na into her pillow.
"Good morning, Lukas."
"Morning, Diane."
The first ti she called by my na instead of honey or sugar, I knew sothing had shifted between us. We’d crossed into territory that required different rules.
She’d eat whatever I cooked, complint it with genuine warmth, then kiss my cheek before leaving for the office.
Sloane would co down right after Diane left. She’d load her plate, settle next to , and we’d eat in comfortable silence or talk about training plans.
Sotis she’d reach over and steal food from my plate just to ss with . I’d steal from hers in retaliation. It beca a ga.
One morning, her hand lingered on my arm after she grabbed my last piece of bacon.
"Thanks for breakfast," she said quietly.
"You’re welco."
"And thanks for... everything else."
I turned to look at her. "What do you an?"
Her cheeks turned pink. "For wanting ."
I kissed her before she could get more embarrassed. She tasted like maple syrup.
The afternoons varied. Sotis Sloane would leave to hang out with her friends from prep courses, girls I’d never t who were also applying to Halloran. She’d co back energized, talking about their training routines and Aspects and theories about what the entrance exam would test.
Other days, we’d stay ho. Watch movies. Play gas. Make out on the couch until we were both breathing hard and her hands were under my shirt.
But that’s where it stopped.
Two weeks of kissing, touching, grinding against each other until I was so hard it hurt and she was gasping my na. But every ti my hands moved toward her shorts, she’d stop .
"Not yet," she’d whisper, her forehead against mine. "I want to. God, I want to. But..."
"But what?"
"I want it to be after we both get into Halloran. Like a celebration." Her blue eyes were dark with want. "Is that stupid?"
"No," I said, even though my body disagreed violently. "If that’s what you want, I can wait."
She kissed hard, grateful and frustrated in equal asure. "You’re too good to ."
Not really. I was fucking her mom every night.
The guilt surfaced sotis. I’d be kissing Sloane, hands in her hair, and suddenly I’d rember the way Diane had ridden the night before, or the sounds she made when I pinned her to the mattress.
But the guilt never lasted long enough to make stop.
Diane would return ho around six most evenings. Sotis earlier if a crisis got resolved, sotis later if sothing exploded in her face. Victor Sterling’s approval rating, apparently, continued to be a full-ti job.
She’d walk through the door looking exhausted but composed, and Sloane would imdiately start telling her about our training or whatever she’d done that day.
Diane would listen with genuine interest, asking questions, offering advice from her decades of experience managing Heroes.
Then we’d have dinner together. The three of us, sitting around the table like a normal family.
Except normal families didn’t have the undercurrent of tension that ran beneath every conversation. Normal families didn’t have mothers who kept making eye contact with the guy they were secretly sleeping with while their daughter talked about combat theory.
Diane was good at hiding it. Better than . She’d smile at Sloane, laugh at her jokes, critique her training decisions with the authority of soone who’d watched Heroes rise and fall for twenty years.
But sotis her foot would brush mine under the table. Sotis her gaze would linger half a second too long. Sotis she’d lick her lips while looking at , and I’d know exactly what she was thinking about.
Sloane never noticed.
After dinner, Sloane would usually head to her room to study Hero law or review combat footage from ranked Heroes. She took her preparation seriously, bordering on obsessive.
I’d help clean up, and Diane would stay in the kitchen with , making small talk that felt like foreplay.
"You’re getting stronger," she said one night, leaning against the counter while I loaded the dishwasher. "I can see the difference in how you move."
"Training helps."
"More than training, I think." Her voice dropped lower. "My hypothesis might have rit after all."
"Your hypothesis," I repeated, straightening up to face her.
She crossed her arms under her breasts, emphasizing them in the silk blouse. "That your power grows through physical intimacy. We’ve been testing it rigorously for two weeks now. The data is compelling."
"Is that what we’re calling it? Data collection?"
"Would you prefer I call it what it actually is?" She stepped closer, her perfu filling my senses. "Six rounds minimum every night? Sotis seven if you’re particularly motivated?"
My pulse quickened. "I’m always motivated."
"I’ve noticed." Her hand landed on my chest, feeling my heartbeat. "The question is whether we should conduct another experint tonight. For research purposes."
"Very scientific of you."
"I take my research seriously." Her fingers traced down my abdon. "My bedroom. Thirty minutes. Don’t make wait."
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