“Why the hell did you call me?” I hiss as I step on to the mat.
“We didn’t finish our conversation.” He replies, shoulders straight, jaw tight, not a crack in sight. The mask is back, the one he wears when the senior officer uniform does the talking.
“And you thoughtherewould be the best place?”
“Well, I know how much you love kicking me in the groin—what, twice now? You could always make it a third…” There’s a small tug at his mouth. Not a smile. A challenge. Then louder to the room, “You’ll all get your turn to spar with an officer. In the meantime, watch carefully. Cadet Bloom’s about to Demonstrate what to do—and what not to do.”
Talen shifts into stance—feet set, shoulders square, hands loose and ready. No tension. No tells. Just calm, practised violence.
“Cadet Bloom,” he says, gaze fixed, that grin pulling wider. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Fuck him.
One grounding inhale, then I move first, because letting him set the rhythm would be suicide.
No punches, that’d be useless against him. Instead, I drop low, muscles tense as I drive toward his leg—heel hooking behind his knee, aiming to knock his balance before he can use it against me.
It’s fast, clean, and practised. I feel the strain through my hips, the jolt in my joints from impact, but he pivots out of reach like he felt the air shift. Effortless.
Fine.
I grit my teeth and keep moving—try again, using the momentum to twist, shoulders burning as I drive back into his space. My elbow lashes up toward his ribs—not to land a hit, I know better—but to force him to block, open a gap, give mesomething.
But he just shifts again, controlled as ever, like he’s not even trying.
I’ve seen him fight before, with Lucien, but that was from a distance. This? Up close? It’s something else entirely; his reaction speed is inhuman. Like he reads muscle tension faster than thought. It pisses me off how good he is.
My heart rate kicks up, I go low—legs straining as I shift into a sweep that nearly takes him out. He slides back and grins like I’ve just confirmed something for him.
Asshole.
“Glad to see you’re not holding back.” His voice is maddeningly calm as we circle again. “Always nice to see thosethornsyou’re hiding…”
I don’t answer. Just breathe. Hard. Fast. Each inhale sounds too loud—sharper than it should. I glance around. The Rec Hall’s still buzzing—cadets talking, shifting, shouting over each other. But I can’t hear any of it.
The fucking bastard’s fighting me one-handed and still able to throw up a silence shield around the whole damn mat. I hate how impressive that is. Worse, I hate that it’s hot.
“You said you wanted to finish our conversation,” I say, trying to keep my tone flat, not letting him see how out of breath I'm getting. “So what do you want to say?” I dart in again, testing him with a short jab toward his shoulder. He knocks it aside like brushing dust from a coat.
“That you were right,” he replies, stepping in just close enough to make me shift back. “Idon’tthink it was a mistake.”He ducks under my next blow, then spins behind me, close enough to touch. “But it still shouldn’t happen again.”
I move fast, trying to catch him off-balance, but he reads it and slips back before I can plant a heel in his shin.
“Why?” I throw the word at him like a weapon. “I know you enjoyed the other night as much as I did. Don’t even try to deny it.”
We break apart, then clash again, close and fast. I drive my weight into a low feint, then snap a hand up toward his jaw.He catches my wrist mid-air.
“Just because I want you in my bed.” He shoots back, not letting it go, “doesn’t mean I’ll act on it.” He releases me, fast. I stagger back a step “Besides,” he adds, chest rising slow, as if we haven’t been moving at all, “even if I wanted to, even if I thought it wasn’t a mistake,youdon’t trust me. Remember?”
We circle again, feet quiet against the mat. He’s not coming at me. Still holding back. Still giving me the space to burn myself out.
Which just annoys me even more.
So I press in, hard and fast. A quick step, then I pivot, slipping under his arm and aim to drive my fist into his gut—just below the sternum. But he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he moves with it. Lets me brush past, then turns and sweeps my leg clean out from under me.
My back hits the mat. Hard. Breath leaves me in a grunt and before I can move, he’s already standing over me—hands at his sides, posture calm, infuriatingly composed.
“Sleeping together doesn’t require trust,” I bite out, glaring up at him, chest rising too fast, ribs aching with every pull of air.
