Eight feet of ancient muscle and patient power. Shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the windows behind him. Arms that could snap me in half without effort. Hands that could wrap around my waist with fingers to spare. His thighs are thicker than my torso. His chest is a wall of bronze that I couldn’t mark with my fists if I spent hours trying.
And his eyes—those molten gold eyes—track my entrance with the focus of a predator who’s already calculated exactly how easily he could destroy me.
Something twists low in my belly. Something that isn’t fear.
I hate it.
“You slept well.” It’s not a question. He knows exactly how I slept. Probably watched me through one of his scrying crystals,cataloging every restless movement, every moan I made in my sleep.
“I slept.” I keep my voice flat, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort. “What do you want?”
“To train you.” He moves to the weapon rack with the fluid grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size, selecting two practice swords. The blade looks normal in his massive grip—in my hands, it would require two-handed control. “Today we assess your current abilities.”
“You’ve been watching me for months. You already know what I can do.”
“I know what you can do against chaos-beasts and desperate bandits.” He tosses me one of the swords, and I catch it on instinct, my hand finding the grip before my mind has processed the movement. “I want to know what you can do against me.”
The practice blade is weighted like a real weapon but dull-edged—designed for training, not killing. I test its balance, run through a few basic forms, and try to ignore the way his eyes follow every movement like he’s memorizing me.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.
I attack without warning.
He blocks my first strike without seeming to move.
The impact jars up my arm, vibrating through muscle and bone, and I’m already flowing into the next attack before the shock fades. Strike, feint, spin, thrust—combinations I’ve developed over eight years of combat, techniques that have kept me alive against things faster and stronger than any human.
None of them land.
He moves like water around stone, turning aside each blow with minimal effort. His expression stays calm, almost bored, while I pour everything I have into attacks he dismisses like they’re nothing. Like I’m nothing.
I know I can’t beat him. I knew that before I walked in here. But there’s a difference between knowing something intellectually and feeling it in your bones—the absolute, undeniable reality of just how outmatched I am.
“Your footwork is good,” he observes, blocking a thrust aimed at his throat with one hand. “Creative. You’ve learned to compensate for fighting larger opponents.”
“Save your critique.” I spin into a new sequence, trying to find an angle he hasn’t covered. “I’m not here to impress you.”
“You’re here because you belong to me.” He catches my blade on his, locking us together, his strength holding me in place as easily as if I were a child. “The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”
“I don’t—”
He moves.
One moment we’re locked together. The next I’m on my back with his weight pressing me into the mat, my sword clattering away across the floor. His body covers mine like an avalanche—I’m drowning in bronze skin and hard muscle, my entire frame swallowed by his. He’s braced on one arm to keep from crushing me, but there’s still so much of him, everywhere, blocking out the light and filling my lungs with his scent.
My wrists are caught above my head. One hand. He’s holding both my wrists with one hand, and his grip isn’t even tight—justinescapable, like the stone of the mountain itself has wrapped around my bones.
I can’t breathe.
Not because he’s crushing me—he’s left me enough room to draw air. But his scent floods my lungs with every gasp, his heat soaks into my skin through layers of leather, and his hips press mine into the mat with a weight that makes escape feel like a fantasy. His face is inches from mine, close enough that I can see the silver veins pulsing beneath his bronze skin, close enough to see the ancient patience in those golden eyes.
And pressed against my belly, hard and huge even through our clothes, I can feel—
“This is what complete control feels like,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Your opponent decides whether you move, whether you breathe, whether you fight back.” His hips shift against mine, and I feel that hardness drag across my stomach—something thick, ridged in patterns I can feel through the leather. Something that sends a bolt of heat straight to my core despite every rational thought screaming at me to fight. “Everything.”
I should be clawing at him. Screaming. Doing anything to escape.
Instead, my body melts into the mat like it’s been waiting for exactly this.
