He’s all heat beneath me—body tense, restrained, every line of him coiled like he’s one second from snapping.
“But I’m warning you. You’ll lose this game.”
I lean in, breath ghosting his cheek. “Let’s see about that.”
Then I shift, hook my leg up, and drive my knee between his groin.
A harsh rush tears out of him, body folds, instincts taking over. I shove him off, quick and clean, rolling to my feet before he can recover.
I flash him a smile, sweet. “That's three times now.” Then I turn and walk off the mat.
Talen assistsfor the next month’s sessions. Each week, I wait, wait for the right moment, until he’s not expecting it, until his guard slips, then I send something. Not too much—just enough to make his breath hitch, his stance falter. Just enough for the cadet he’s sparring with to get the upper hand.
I should feel bad, taking pleasure in seeing him become so distracted. But it’s hard not to enjoy watching his usual perfect composure slip and stumble.
He keeps our fake dates public now, though. Food hall. No silence shield. He eats, he leaves. Straight lines, no pauses. I tried a few times then, too—threading a flicker of heat into him, just enough to make him choke on his water. I give him a look, every time. You can end this, just give in. Trust isn’t a requirement, sex isn’t sacred.
I have to give it to him—he’s tougher to break than I thought.
But luckily I have time. Since Call Week, no one’s come for me. Ryven, Elijah, Strannt—they’ve all backed off after they saw my magic lock in at Call Week. No one wants to test that again. It’s just Weasel Senior who still lingers around watching me, yet he hasn't made a move either. So other than training, the odd propaganda essay and being a good friend, I can mostly put my full focus and attention on Talen.
Today he’s on the mat, giving advice while two cadets train—offering corrections, calling out footwork. I start to think about the first time he slid his fingers inside me—how they curled just right, coaxing that deep, unbearable pull of heat low in my belly, every muscle tightening around him. My heart kicks up, and I send it through the bond.
From across the hall, I watch his throat flex—one hard swallow—and then nothing, doesn’t look up, doesn’t flinch. But after class on the way out, his hand catches my arm, unamused, pulling me aside.
“Lyra,” he warns, low and dangerous. “You need to stop.”
“Oh?” I tip my head, playful. “Why? Can’t handle it?”
His eyes narrow just slightly. “I’m serious.”
“You always are.”
A flash of something dark flickers in his gaze. “This isn’t a game.”
“Really? Because itfeelslike one.” I say, arms folding across my chest. “You fucked me likethat, then only afterwards suddenly decided you’ve got a moral compass and need trust?”I step in closer, voice low. “I’m sitting here, almost a month later since the ball, still waiting patiently for the answers you promised. The least you could do is distract me.” A pause, my eyes narrowing. “I’ll keep pushing, Talen. I’m very persistent.”
Something shifts. His head tilts, just slightly, and there’s a flicker in his gaze. Calculated, not angry, but assessing, like he’s seeing me clearly for the first time. Not a threat but a challenge. And then he leans in, not just with his voice, with his whole body.
“Oh, I know how persistent you can be,” voice military-clear, “but I told you I’m not going to break,Lyra.”
The way he says my name—it hums through me, low and shivering. His hips shift forward, brushing tighter against mine.
“You can push all you want. But I have more control over this than you think. You're playing with fire.” A pause. His gaze drops to my lips. My lungs seize for a beat. “But if youdokeep pushing, Iwillpush back. Two can play at this game you’ve started, and you’re not ready for how good I am at it.” He leans in—closer, closer—until his mouth grazes my ear and I feel the heat of his breath “I promise I'll have you begging me to stop… butprayingI never do.”
My skin prickles. I’m suddenly too warm. Too aware of every inch of space between us, and how little of it there is.
Then, without warning, he pushes off me, turns, and starts walking. Over his shoulder: “I’m warning you,Thorn. Let it go.”
And then he’s gone.
Leaving me flushed, unsteady, my heart hammering against my ribs, too fast, too loud. I can’t tell if I’m shaken or just unbelievably turned on.
But either way, there's one thing I’m certain about.
I’m absolutelynotletting it go.
It’s not even about the sex anymore, it’s about winning.
