She takes her stance, and I note her form is solid – feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, hands up protecting her face and throat.
“Let’s start with basic defensive moves,” I say. “I’ll throw some strikes, you block and counter. We’ll work up from there.”
She nods.
“I’m ready.”
I throw a straight punch toward her face, pulling most of my strength but keeping the speed realistic. She blocks it cleanly with her forearm, redirecting my arm to the outside using a technique I recognize from Krav Maga. But she doesn’t stop there. The moment my arm is deflected, she drives her elbow toward my ribs in a vicious counterstrike.
I block it easily, but I’m impressed. She’s not just defending, she’s attacking the moment an opening appears. That’s pure Krav Maga philosophy – aggressive, practical, designed to end fights quickly.
“Good,” I say. “Again.”
We exchange strikes, and I start to see her patterns. She favors efficiency over flash. When I throw a hook, she doesn’t just slip it, she traps my arm and goes for my eyes with her fingers. When I grab her wrist, she doesn’t pull away, she steps inclose, controls my elbow, and tries to hyperextend my arm using leverage that looks like Jiu-Jitsu joint manipulation.
She’s strategic, looking for vulnerable points, not afraid to hit me with everything she has, even though she knows I could end this in seconds if I wanted to.
“You can go harder,” she says after blocking another combination. “I can take it.”
I increase my speed and force, testing her reactions. She holds her own better than I expected. When I catch her wrist in a grip that would break a normal human’s bones, she doesn’t panic. She drops her weight, twists her body, and slips free using a Jiu-Jitsu escape before I can adjust my hold.
I could crush her effortlessly. Just tighten my grip, use my superior strength, put her on the ground and keep her there. But that’s not the point of this training. The point is helping her survive when I’m not merged with her, when she’s alone and has to rely on her own skills.
“Let’s work on ground defense,” I say. “If someone gets you down, you need to know how to escape.”
She nods, and I move in for a takedown. She sprawls to defend, dropping her hips and spreading her weight, but I’m too strong. I drive forward and take her to the mat, controlling her from behind. My chest presses against her back, and my arm slides across her shoulders, pinning her down.
The scent of her hits me, sweat and soap, and underneath that, simply… her. She’s warm and far too distracting. She’s breathing hard beneath me, and I can feel every breath she takes pressing back against my chest. Her body is heated from exertion, and her skin is slightly damp with sweat where my arm touches her neck.
Heat pools low in my abdomen before I can stop it. I force myself to focus on the training, on the position, on anything except how good she feels under me.
She tucks her chin and turns into me rather than away, creating space with her hips. She slips out using a technique that’s pure Jiu-Jitsu, all leverage and timing, and scrambles back to her feet.
“Well done,” I say. “That was textbook.”
She grins, and I realize it’s the first real smile I’ve seen from her.
“I’m not completely helpless.”
I reset my position and tell myself to stay professional.
But I can’t stop thinking about earlier, when we started to merge and I felt her arousal spike through the neural connection, the way her pulse jumped, the heat that flooded through her core. Then she pulled away like I’d burned her.
I’ve merged with dozens of hosts over the years. Some were reluctant, others excited, some afraid. But none of them responded like Wren did. None of them felt aroused when I poured myself inside them. I don’t understand what it means.
Is she attracted to me? Disgusted by her own reaction? Did she panic because she felt something she didn’t want to feel?
I want to ask, but I don’t know how. It would be completely inappropriate.
“Again,” I say instead.
We continue drilling escapes and reversals. She’s good at reading my intentions, adjusting her weight before I can fully commit to a technique. When I shoot for a double-leg takedown, she sprawls and tries to take my back. When I pull guard, she doesn’t rush in, she stays patient, looking for openings.
But then I sweep her and end up mounted on top of her, pinning her wrists above her head. It’s a standard submission position, but nothing about it feels standard. She’s trapped under me, flushed and breathing hard. Her chest rises and falls against mine, and I can feel her heartbeat racing through the contact points where our bodies touch.
She feels soft, yet also lean, her muscles strong and defined. She feels like a woman who can be both vulnerable and powerful. She could submit if she wanted to, but she could also dominate. The thought sends another wave of heat through me.
Her scent is everywhere, filling my lungs, making it hard to think. She looks up at me with those incredible blue eyes, and I forget what I was going to say, forget why we’re here, forget everything except the way she feels pinned under my body.
