Lorelei James - Unwound

“So either accept that I want a long-term, open and honest intimate relationship with you on every level, or don’t. Your choice.”

For the first time ever, Ronin walked away from her.

And not for the first time, she slunk away, embarrassed by her behavior.

TWO fucking days since Ronin had heard from Amery.

Two. Fucking. Days.

Since he’d left it up to her to contact him, it’d been torture not storming over to her place. Not calling her. Not tracking her down in a parking garage and doing a hojojutsu capture on her for real.

He’d spent all day Saturday with Blue, Knox, and Gil, hashing out revised class schedules. They’d gone over the receipts from the night’s event. Charted what worked and what hadn’t. Devised a strategy for the next event in six short weeks.

That’s when his train of thought jumped the track, wondering if that much time would pass again before Amery approached him.

Maybe you won’t hear from her again. Maybe she got what she wanted—a lucrative contract with Okada—and she doesn’t need you anymore.

His logical side tried to stamp down the ridiculousness, but a small niggling fear remained.

Sunday he worked out—swimming, weights, hand work, foot work, cardio on the treadmill—until Shiori arrived late in the afternoon. As the highest belt rank in the dojo, her continued training fell on his shoulders. She was a tireless pupil, and they spent two hours working on what she called drills, skills, and thrills.

Then, at Shiori’s request, they’d gone over the DVD of her match, dissecting the high points and the mistakes. Although she’d insisted the only reason she fought was to keep the fight card full¸ Ronin understood that she had the same need he did to physically prove herself. She admitted that she and Sophia had discussed starting a women’s MMA basics class, just to see if it garnered interest. When he questioned if her time in the dojo was interfering with her position at Okada, she changed the subject. He assumed any questions about Amery’s project with the company would elicit the same response, so he didn’t bother to ask.

Ronin had been tempted to invite Shiori to his penthouse for dinner, but he decided it would be awkward if Amery showed up.

Wishful thinking on his part, as it’d turned out.

A shower and an hour of meditation centered him.

Still, he’d slept poorly, so Monday started off on a bad note. Katie’s constant chattering got on his nerves, and he passed her off to Blue.

He thought he’d found solitude in his office when Knox barged in. “You have got to keep me in the loop on some of this shit, Ronin. There’s this big dude out there who swears he has an appointment with you.”

“Be nice if one of these kids actually made an appointment,” he muttered. “Send him in.”

Knox returned with a young man nearly Knox’s height, which put him close to six foot three. He was solidly built, but not excessively bulked up like some gym rats who equated brawn with strength. He’d dressed appropriately—khaki pants, short-sleeved polo, shined shoes. His hair and eye color were all Max.

Ronin stood and offered his hand. “Ivan?”

“Yes, sir.”

Manners too. “I’m Ronin Black. That’s Knox Lofgren. He also runs the MMA club. Knox, this is Ivan Stanislovsky. He’s a prospect.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Ivan said.

“Same. We do use formal titles at Black Arts, so as Sensei’s second-in-command, call me Shihan.”

“Yes, Shihan.”

Ronin pointed to the chair for Ivan and the edge of the desk for Knox. “I spoke to your father Friday night. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

He frowned. “Really? He assured me I had an appointment with you first thing this week. I’m sorry if I misunderstood.”

Not the kid’s fault that his father was a pushy bastard. “Luckily I have time right now. He mentioned your interest in training in an MMA program. What is your athletic background?”

Ivan blushed. “My mother put me in dance when I was four years old. She had visions of me becoming the next Baryshnikov. I trained in classical ballet in Denver, New York, and Russia until I was sixteen.”

“Ballet training is incredibly rigorous and requires a lot of dedication. Why did you quit?”

“I got tired of defending myself. I’m not homosexual—I have nothing against those who are—but there is that perception from outsiders. I ended up in many fights. Got my butt kicked, so I asked my father if I could learn to fight. When I was in the US, he signed me up for tae kwon do. When in Russia with my mother, I studied sambo. Sambo,” he repeated, “not samba, the dance.”

“Thanks for the clarification. Any amateur fights?”

“Besides getting called out in the nightclubs? No, sir.”

“The reason you want to become an MMA fighter? To have the skills to win those nightclub fights?” Knox asked.

Ivan shook his head. “I want to train to become the best fighter in my weight class and have the chance to earn a world title.”

He’d said that without cockiness—bonus for him. Guys who showed up, claiming to be good enough to win a world title, were promptly shown the door.

Knox commented, “You sound confident.”

“I know how to train and can push my body beyond normal physical limits. Some assume because my father raised me with the advantages he didn’t have that I would act privileged. I do not. I learned my work ethic from my father.”

His English wasn’t as accented as Max’s, but it held the same Russian inflections. “You’re proud of your father?”

“Yes. He is a great man. We have philosophical differences, but I know he expects me to run his businesses when I’m ready, at least a decade down the road. Those are his words, not mine.”

“Well, Ivan, if you’ll sit tight for a moment, I’ll get Deacon to show you around the dojo, the training rooms, and go through requirements, expectations, and costs.” Ronin hit the intercom to the training room and asked Deacon to come to the office.

“Thank you, Sensei, for this opportunity.”

“You’ll earn it; trust me.”

Deacon strolled in. Introductions were made, and they exited the office.

Of course Knox stayed. He plopped in the chair Ivan had vacated and propped his feet on the desk. “Didn’t know we were actively building up our MMA roster.”

“I meant to talk to you about it first. It came up Friday night, and the meeting was supposed to happen later this week.”

“He seems solid.”

“I hope so. We need a heavyweight fighter, and I plan to use him as an interpreter.” Ronin gave Knox a sly smile. “I wouldn’t mind getting a couple of those other Russian fighters on our roster.”

Knox grinned back. “You sneaky dog. I bet you played it cool with Max too, acting like you’re doing him a favor. But damn, Ronin. That’s Max’s kid. Does he know the kind of shit his dad is into?”

“I assume that would be the genesis of the ‘differing philosophies’ comment.”

“Why don’t you ever talk about your old man?”

Ronin’s gaze sharpened. Where had that come from? “Why would I? He’s been dead thirty years.”

Knox shrugged. “He started you in jujitsu. It impacted you enough you’ve made it your career.”

“So?”

“So, like Ivan, you have a family business that you could join anytime you wanted. Have Black Arts be a . . . hobby.”

A hobby? What the fuck? “If you have something to say, Shihan, spit it out.”

“Whoa, don’t bite my head off. It’s just I’ve noticed you’re different since Amery came into your life. And before you fry me with that deadly stare, different in a good way. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Except for the reverting back to fighting shit, but I think you’re done with that now. Anyway, you want to spend time with Amery, so you’ve relinquished some of your control. You’ve delegated, which needed to happen, but it wasn’t like any of us were gonna bring it up with you.” He mock shuddered.

“Fuck off.”

Knox laughed. “So, I, for one, am happy about the changes. The students like it; the instructors like it. We’re expanding in a positive way. ABC is a great fit. The promotion company is a brilliant idea.”

“Do I sense a but?”

“Two things. Is something going on with Okada that I should know about since She-Cat has been here for so long?”

“Something going on . . . how?”

“You tell me. I have to wonder with you flipping Black Arts on its head, if the reason you’re sharing control here is because you’re about to take control somewhere else. Namely in Tokyo.”

Ronin leaned back in his chair. “If that’d been part of my game plan, I would’ve clued you in. My grandfather hasn’t brought up my ascension to the Okada throne for more than a year. The last three or four times I’ve spoken to him? We’ve discussed Japanese sports and American politics. As far as why Shiori is still here? No idea. If I ask her outright, she hedges. If I call up my grandfather and ask him, he’ll think I have an interest in the company. So I’ve let it be.” Ronin’s mother probably knew what was going on, but they hadn’t connected and it wasn’t the type of conversation to have over e-mail.

“I wish she’d let me be. Man, she rides my ass about everything,” Knox grumbled.

He refused to get in the middle of Shiori and Knox’s multitude of personal issues. “You said there were two things. What’s the other?”

Knox set his feet on the floor. “It’s been mentioned to me that you’ve been to Twisted only twice in the last five months.”

Ronin knew being a member of a sex club who didn’t indulge in many sexual activities made him an anomaly. He’d joined because women in the BDSM world were open to rope play.