This is it. This is how I die—left for dead on some anonymous London street by a giant riding a Harley Davidson.

The bike roars to a stop by my clapped-out car and I totter forward, waving my hands. "I'm OK! I don't need any help. The mechanic will be here any second!" I lie. My already knotted stomach turns to steel as he climbs off the enormous beast.

Mum's rusty Corsa had survived the drive from Edinburgh to Dad's smelly, sweaty boxing gym where he'd obviously forgotten I was coming. Because having the daughter he hadn't seen in a decade move in with him after discovering her childhood sweetheart in bed with a bambi-eyed eighteen-year-old and finding herself homeless was a simple thing to forget.

A surly woman had scribbled down the address of some hotel and sent me on my way. And then, to top off the worst year of my life, I'd broken down on the one deserted road in one of the world's busiest cities with a dead phone and a car stuffed with every possession I owned.

The biker strides closer, his black helmet gleaming in the sunlight not blocked by the towering concrete monstrosities on either side of the road. I glance between him and the car, wondering if I have anything that I could use as a weapon. I'm sure my ballet trophies could give a good concussion if I could get to them. Slipping my hand through the open window and reaching towards a box, I keep my eyes on him as he unclips his helmet and slips it under his arm.

Well, that's unexpected.

Underneath the helmet is a youthful face, probably the same age as me. Dark hair is clipped close to his skull. Emerald eyes burst out from a tanned face with cheekbones that could cut glass. He's well over six feet, his broad body straining against the bike leathers he's wearing like a second skin. Maybe he catches my surprise as his full lips break out into a smirk and he runs his hand across his head.

"Car problems?"

I step away from the car, not knowing what to do with my hands. I've never been good at talking to men. And it's not a skill I ever needed to learn since the only boyfriend I'd ever had I'd known since the academy. And all that proved was how easily men will turn to someone else the moment things get tough.

"I... ummm." I exhale, folding my arms across my chest. "It died on me. I got lost and then it just... died." His eyes really are a remarkable shade of green. I can't drag my gaze away from them.

Nodding, he steps forward, placing his helmet on the ground and removing his jacket. He pushes his long-sleeved T-shirt up his arms, revealing a variety of ink coiling around defined muscles that are undoubtedly my favourite London landmark so far.

He reaches in through the car window, opening the hood, which whines in protest. Lifting it open, he stares down at the engine. I walk over, staring down along with him, even though the jumble of metal means nothing to me.

He's frowning hard, tweaking things and tugging on others. He swears a little when oil coats his hands and he wipes it unhappily into his shirt. The scent of oil does little to hide how good he smells, like leather and dark spice.

"I'm not surprised you broke down. That you got this car moving at all is what shocks me."

"So, what's wrong with it?"

He slams the hood shut. Running his hands on his shirt, the black smears across the grey fabric. "Many, many things, but I think it died because of a loose battery connection. I've tightened it up. It should start now."

After mumbling a few prayers to the gods of car engines, I hop inside the driver's side and turn the key. It's not exactly purring, but the engine starts. I leap out.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you so much! I'm not sure how long I'd have been stuck here if you hadn't stopped."

"You think I'm in the habit of leaving women stranded on the side of the road?" He tucks his hands in his jeans pockets. "Besides, you look like you have an interesting story." There's an amused lilt to his voice that's undeniably appealing.

"What makes you think I have a story?"

He steps closer, till there are only inches between us, glancing at the car and then back at me.

"Well, you're driving a car that's barely roadworthy. It's packed with boxes, so you're moving and... you're wearing Chanel."

My mouth drops. My jacket is the classic tweed and bouclé piece, easily recognisable if you're interested in fashion, but definitely not something I'd expect from a biker with more tattoos than skin.

"How do you know it's not a fake?"

"Because you look like a duchess. And a duchess would never be seen in a fake." I shake my head but smile. Only just aware it's the first time I've smiled in months. The first time since Mum died. The first time since my life had started falling apart. It's not a bad feeling, just an unwelcome one. I'm not sure I can deal with guilt on top of every other emotion I'm dealing with today.

"I'm Xander."

Even with my little experience, I can see his intentions written all over his face. My stomach lurches. I don't need cute boys turning my head. Not when it was only hours ago I found the person I thought I was spending my life with fucking someone else.

I need to get to Dad. I need to get a key. And then I need to fix the wreck that is my life. Those eyes, though.

"And I... need to go," I utter finally. He nods knowingly. If he's offended, he doesn't show it.

"Where are you going?"

"I... ummm, thank you. You've done enough. I'll be fine now."

"Where are you going?" He repeats like he hasn't even heard me. Sighing, I dig out the crumpled Post-it and hand it to him. He bites his lip and I frown as he fights a smile. I hadn't stopped to ask what Dad was doing at some random hotel in the middle of the day—maybe I should have.

"You're five minutes away. Just turn left at the end of the street."

"OK, thank you."

"You're welcome."

He hands back the Post-it. My small hand brushing his large one. I feel my skin burning from his touch. He lets the contact linger. There's something in the air, something new and delicate and completely unexpected and so wrong right now that I can't process it. I step back and let it snap. He glances away, but his expression is playful when he looks back at me.

"Can I at least have your name now?"

A smile settles on my lips. "Duchess will do just fine. Thank you."

***

I stand outside the hotel, feeling a little hollow after my interaction with Xander. It's an ugly brick building that doesn't look like it's seen a paintbrush since the eighties. The only splash of colour is a couple of large posters reading "Knight vs. Kane—The Rematch". I sigh. So that's why Dad's here. A fresh burst of anger heats my belly. Boxing. My dad's one true love. Not his wife. Not his daughter. But two idiots beating each other up for cash. I stomp up the concrete steps and into the hotel.

The main atrium of the hotel is bustling with people. A bored-looking receptionist is pointing the array of journalists toward a set of open double doors, leading to a large room full of chairs.

"Cassie?" a voice blurts out across the room. My throat tightens as I watch Dad dodging and dashing through the crowd. He stops a foot before me. It might as well be miles.

He doesn't look like me. I see little in his face or features that connect us. I have Mum's willowy figure, her nearly black hair, and pale skin that resists all hints of sunlight. He's given me only two things—blue eyes and abandonment issues. "Cassie... What are you doing here?"

Anger grips me, but I straighten my back and tuck my hair behind my ears.

"You weren't at the gym and they said you were here. I have all my stuff and no keys, so..."

He frowns. "I thought you weren't coming till tonight?"

"I told you. . . I was leaving straight right after I'd packed."

"Yeah, so..." His face drops. Groaning, he covers his face with his hand. "I thought you'd take longer, I thought I had time... Shit, I'm sorry."

I shrug and glance away. Hoping he can't catch the tears growing in my eyes.

"Don't worry. I'll be out of your hair by the end of the summer and back at the company."

"Cassie..."

"And I'll be working all summer to pay for the doctor's fees, so I doubt you'll be seeing me, anyway."

"Doctor? What doctor?"

I sigh, the frustration building. "For my knee. I need to be hundred-percent before the audition in September and I've found a specialist who can speed up the recovery time. For a cost anyway..."

"Wait. What? How much do you need?"

"I don't need any help..."

"How much do you need, Cassie?"

"Ten thousand pounds. I've already paid him five thousand..." AKA, every single penny I have. "Once he has the rest he can perform the procedure and I can get back to dancing." Back to my life.

He coughs, spluttering until his words return. He earns a few curious looks from the crowd.

"You need... How much? And you think flipping burgers or pouring pints is going to get you ten grand in three months?"

My cheeks burn. I'm not naïve. I know the chances of me getting the money are minuscule, but I have to try. After Mum died, I went straight back to performing. It was the only thing I knew how to do. Dance.

But a few weeks later I'd damaged my knee on stage and despite months of physio and therapy I still didn't move the way I did. I hadn't just lost my position as a soloist; the Scottish Ballet Company had let me go. I'd lost Mum, the dream I'd loved since I was a little girl and as of this morning, my home. Bad things really do come in threes.

I was going to be a prima ballerina. It had been the only focus of my life since I was old enough to go to my first class—weekends locked in a studio while other kids played in the summer sun, bloodied toes, bruises, strained muscles, losing friends who just couldn't understand my passion. I had lost so much to a dream that was slipping through my fingers right now. And of course, the idea of living with Dad filled me with enough dread I felt locked in my own personal horror movie.

"I'll figure it out."

"If I had the money, you could have it. Really. But I've invested every penny I have into securing this fight. If he doesn't win, well..." Dad coughs anxiously, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

A large hand slaps him on the shoulder. "Come on, Frank, they need to start. Anders looks like he's going to pop a blood vessel, and as much as that would be fun to watch..."

A handsome face peers over Dad's head, spots me and smiles. He steps to the side of us, filling the awkward gap between Dad and me. He pushes his California blond hair back from his face, but a few strands drape into navy eyes. I already know he's one of Dad's fighters—his face may be boyish, but he has the tall, broad frame of a boxer.

"I'm Daniel. And you must be Cassie. Frank told me you were coming, but I didn't know you were coming for the press conference." I shoot Dad a look who has the sense to look sheepish, but he says nothing.

Daniel holds out his hand and I take it. His skin is warm against mine. He clutches it for a beat too long. "I heard we'll have the pleasure of your company all summer. Personally, I can't wait."

Dad gives him a searching look. "OK, OK, we'll do some proper introductions later. Come on, they're waiting for us."

Daniel nods and follows Dad towards the now-packed convention room. Having no other options, I follow them. Dad grips my elbow just before we enter, muttering in my ear, "Just find a seat. This won't take long, and I'll go get the keys."

Meekly, I slip into one of the few empty seats near the back as the last few people wander in. Anticipation is a taste in the air, the cameras already flashing as Dad and Daniel take to the stage. The stage has just one long table, surrounded garishly with more slogans and "Annihilation Boxing" logos than the small space can really take.

One man is already sitting there, frowning hard and tapping his fingers impatiently on the table. I avoid anything boxing-related like the plague, but even I recognise Anders Hillier, even if he's retired and just a trainer like Dad now. Dad and Daniel sit down, leaving one empty seat.

And then the doors burst open.

My heart leaps into my throat as Xander runs into the room. He's changed. The oil-stained top and bike leathers gone and replaced with clean jeans and a white T-shirt. Anders shoots him a savage look as he leaps on the stage, and Xander slaps his shoulder affectionately as he passes him. He sits next to Daniel, but neither look at the other. I see their bodies tense.

Xander sees me and slowly his expression shifts into a smile. I shake my head in faux annoyance, and he grins wider. Daniel is staring at him, following his gaze to me and frowning hard.

"Now we're all here. Let's get this over with," Anders grunts. Hands leap into the air, the voices merge as they yell.

"Daniel, how unexpected was it to lose to Kane in your last fight, given the obvious difference in experience between you." Daniel flinches, but the neon smile returns a moment later.

"Obviously, it was... unfortunate, but few fighters go through their entire careers without knockbacks. I was overconfident, and it was an error I won't make again."

"Anders! What was it that gave Xander the edge in the fight?" A woman with a soft Irish accent croons. Anders leans forward to talk into the microphone.

"Knight is a powerful fighter, no question. But he's slow, clumsy, lacks control. Xander has both the power and speed. He's quick on his feet, quick to adapt."

"And what would you say to those, Frank, who say you only accepted the fight to settle an old score with the Kane family?" The energy in the room shifts. The humour on Dad's face drops. His lips twitch as he fights his anger. Xander glances over at him, his face neutral.

"The fight was a part of our strategy to get Daniel closer to a title shot. Nothing more and nothing less." He slams his palm on the table.

"But..."

"In fact..." Dad sits up straighter, the anger shifting into a manic grin. "...speaking of family. We've got a fresh addition to Daniel's training team. By the end of the summer, Daniel's going to be the most agile fighter in the division. He won't be clumsy. He won't be slow. In fact... he's going to be learning ballet. And my daughter is going to teach him."

Dad raises his arm and points directly at me as all the heat drains from my body. The entire room bursts out in laughter, and all eyes, and every camera, turn on me. And I'm not sure who's staring at me hardest, Xander Kane or Daniel Knight.