Talos Claims His Virgin

He brought the car to a stop at the front of a large cream building and faced her. Even in the dark she could see the menace on his features.

‘I will accept no excuses. You will learn the composition and you will play it at the gala and you will do it justice. If you fail in any of those conditions then I will impose the contracted penalty.’

He didn’t have to elaborate any further. The ‘contracted penalty’ meant turning the theatre into a hotel and causing the disbandment of the orchestra. That penalty loomed large in her mind: the threat to ruin every member of the orchestra’s reputation...her own most especially.

‘Understand, though,’ he continued, ‘that I am a man of my word. I said I would ensure that you are mentally fit to get on the stage and play, and that is what I will do. Starting now.’

He got out of the car and opened the boot, pulling out a black sports bag. ‘Follow me.’

Not having any choice, she followed him into the building.

The first thing that hit her was the smell.

She’d never been in a men’s locker room before, but this was exactly what she’d imagined it would smell like: sweat and testosterone.

The second thing to hit her was the noise.

The third thing was the sight of a man with a flat nose, standing behind the reception desk at the entrance, spotting Talos and getting straight to his feet, a huge grin spreading over his face.

The two men greeted each other with bumped fists and a babble of Greek that ended with Talos giving the man a hearty slap on the back before indicating to Amalie to follow him. As they walked away she couldn’t help but notice the blatant adoration on the flat-nosed man’s face. Not a romantic adoration—she’d witnessed that enough times from her mother to know what it looked like—but more a look of reverence.

Past the reception area, they slipped through a door and entered the most enormous room.

Silently she took it all in: the square ring in the corner, the huge blue mats laid out in a square in another, the punching bags dangling at seemingly random places...

‘Is this a boxing gym?’

He raised a hefty shoulder. ‘I’ve boxed since my childhood.’

‘I can’t box!’

He gazed down at her hands. ‘No. You can’t. Throwing a punch at even the softest target has the danger of breaking a finger.’