The grandfather clock in the main foyer chimed six times, the deep, resonant strikes echoing through the marble halls like a funeral bell for Frank's freedom.
Frank was leaning against the polished mahogany railing of the mezzanine, dressed in expensive charcoal joggers and a compression shirt that showed off every muscle he had spent years sculpting. He looked like a masterpiece of athletic arrogance. He had spent the last hour rehearsing his "disinterested" face in the mirror—practicing the exact sneer he would use to let this Davis guy know that he was nothing more than a paid servant in the Austin household.
Then, the massive oak front doors swung open.
Joel Austin walked in first, his booming voice preceding him. "Right this way. The facility is through the west wing, but we'll get you settled in your quarters first."
And then he stepped into the light.
Frank's heart suffered a full-scale structural failure. The air in his lungs turned to lead. It was him. The man from the club. The one in the tactical jacket.
Up close, in the unforgiving brightness of the Austin chandelier, he was even more terrifyingly handsome. He was tall—taller than Frank, but broader, denser, with the kind of physical presence that seemed to warp the space around him. He was dressed simply in a black polo that gripped biceps the size of Frank's thighs and dark cargo pants. His face was a mask of professional neutrality, his jawline so sharp it looked like it could draw blood.
Frank's rehearsed sneer vanished. His mouth went dry, his tongue feeling like a piece of sandpaper. He felt a hot, prickly flush creep up his neck, staining his cheeks a betraying shade of red. He looked like a deer caught in high-beam headlights.
"Frank! Get down here!" Joel barked, looking up at the mezzanine.
Frank moved, but his legs felt like they belonged to someone else. He descended the stairs with none of his usual athletic grace, nearly tripping on the third-to-last step. He caught himself on the railing, his knuckles turning white. He felt clumsy. He felt small. He felt like a fourteen-year-old girl at a boy-band concert, and he hated every second of it.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stood before them. His pulse was hammering so loudly in his ears he was sure they could hear it. He looked at Davis, waiting for a sign. A smirk? A wink?
Davis's eyes met his. They were as cold and clear as a mountain lake. There was no recognition. No flicker of the club's neon lights in those pupils. Nothing.
"Davis," Joel said, gesturing toward Frank, "this is my son. The one I told you about. He's got talent, but his head is in the clouds. Frank, this is Davis. He's the boss of your body from now on."
Frank opened his mouth to say something—something biting, something Alpha. Instead, what came out was a high-pitched, strangled, "Hey."
He immediately wanted to die.
Davis simply nodded once, his gaze raking over Frank with the clinical detachment of a butcher inspecting a side of beef. "He's soft," Davis said.
His voice was a low, resonant rumble that vibrated in Frank's chest. It wasn't an insult; it was a statement of fact.
"Soft?" Frank snapped, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to reclaim his dignity. "I'm at six percent body fat. I've won my last four—"
"Soft," Davis repeated, cutting him off without raising his voice. "You've got vanity muscles, kid. You're built for a photoshoot, not a fifteen-minute war in the cage. We'll fix that."
Kid. The word stung worse than a jab to the eye.
"I saw you," Frank blurted out, his brain losing the battle with his filter. "Last night. At the club. You were watching me."
Elena Austin, who had joined them in the foyer, arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "At a club? Davis, I thought you arrived today."
Davis eyes remained locked on Frank—flat, bored, and utterly dismissive. "I don't go to clubs. I was at my hotel reviewing your fight footage. You must have me confused with someone else."
Frank felt the blood rush to his head. "No, I—you were right there! By the entrance!"
Davis took a single step forward, entering Frank's personal space. The scent of him—cedar, cold air, and something metallic—hit Frank like an intoxicant. Frank found himself leaning back instinctively, his bravado crumbling.
"Listen to me, kid," Davis said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "I'm not here to be your friend, and I'm certainly not here to be a character in your hallucinations. Do we understand each other?"
Frank stared at him, his heart doing a frantic dance. He wanted to shout, to punch that stoic face, but he also felt an overwhelming, terrifying urge to just stand there and let Davis keep talking. He was mesmerized.
"Frank?" Elena prompted, looking concerned.
Frank snapped his eyes away, looking at the floor. "Yeah. Fine. Whatever."
"Excellent," Joel said, clapping a hand on Davis's shoulder—a gesture Davis didn't seem to appreciate. "Elena, why don't you show Davis to his quarters? He'll be staying in the guest suite in the west wing, right across from the gym."
"This way, Davis," Elena said, leading the way.
As they walked past, Davis's shoulder brushed against Frank's. It was a fleeting, accidental contact, but to Frank, it felt like an electric shock. He stood frozen in the foyer, watching Davis walk away. He watched the way the man's back moved under the fabric of his shirt, the way he carried himself with an effortless, masculine authority that made Frank feel like a pretender.
"Five AM, kid," Davis called back without turning around. "If you're a minute late, we start with five miles of hills."
He disappeared around the corner with Elena, leaving Frank standing alone with his father.
"See?" Joel said, looking pleased. "I told you he was the right choice. He's already got you quiet. Usually, you're halfway through an argument by now."
Frank didn't answer. He couldn't. He was too busy trying to figure out why his hands were shaking and why, despite the cold insults and the blatant denial of their meeting, all he wanted to do was follow Davis into that bedroom.
He wasn't a kid.