No.
“Get off me.” My voice comes out breathy, weak—nothing like the command I intended.
“Make me.”
I try. I buck my hips—and realize immediately how stupid that was when I can’t even shift his weight, when the movement just grinds me against that terrifying hardness and sends sparks shooting through my nervous system. I twist my shoulders, but his grip on my wrists doesn’t budge. I try every escape technique I know, and he absorbs each movement like I’m a child throwing a tantrum, keeping me pinned while his body presses against mine in ways that make my thoughts fragment into useless pieces.
The size difference has never been more obvious. I’m not weak. I’ve fought chaos-beasts, killed bandits, held my own against threats that would have broken lesser warriors. But against him, I’m nothing. A doll he could pose however he wants.
“You’re fighting wrong,” he murmurs, his mouth close enough to my ear that I feel his breath on my skin. “You’re using your muscles against mine. You’ll never win that contest.” His voice drops lower, and something in my hindbrain responds to that tone—responds in ways I don’t want to examine. “Use leverage. Use timing. Wait for the moment when I shift my weight to create an opening.”
He’s teaching me. Even while pinning me beneath him. Even while his cock hardens against my stomach. Even while my traitorous body responds to every point of contact with heat I can’t suppress.
I hate that it’s working.
“Try again,” he says. “Wait for the shift.”
I force myself to stop struggling. To breathe. To pay attention instead of panicking. His weight settles more fully against me as he relaxes his guard, and I feel the exact moment when he adjusts his position—
I explode into motion, using his momentum against him. For one glorious second, I have space—
He recaptures me before I can escape fully, but his grip is different now. Approving.
“Better.” The word sends warmth flooding through my chest, and I hate myself for the way it makes me feel. Hate the traitorous spark of pleasure at his approval. Hate that some part of me wants to try again just to hear him say it.
“Again.”
We repeat the exercise over and over. Each time, I get a little further. Each time, he teaches me something new about leverage and timing and exploiting an opponent’s assumptions. Each time, his praise lands in my chest like a small sun, warming me from the inside despite every attempt to stay cold.
And each time, I’m pinned beneath him—drowning in his scent and his heat and the shameful wetness building between my thighs.
By the end, I’m shaking with more than exertion.
“Enough.”
He releases me and rises, extending a hand to help me up. I ignore it, pushing myself to my feet without his assistance. My legs feel unsteady. My whole body feels unsteady—like I’ve been taken apart and put back together wrong.
“Same time tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll work on escapes from different positions.”
Different positions. My mind supplies images I don’t want—his body against mine in a dozen variations, each one more intimate than the last. The heat between my legs pulses at the thought, and I clench my jaw against the wave of shameful want.
“I’m not going to become whatever you want me to be.” The words come out defiant, but my voice wavers on the last syllable.
“You’re already becoming it.” He moves closer—close enough that I have to crane my neck to look up at him, close enough that his scent wraps around me like a physical thing. “You felt it just now, didn’t you? The way your body responds when I pin you. The way your resistance softens when I praise you.”
“That’s just—”
“Biology.” He cups my face in his hand—his palm covers my entire cheek, his fingers curling around to brush my ear. The touch sends electricity cascading through me, heat and want and something terrifyingly close to the surrender he keeps promising. “The same biology that made you wake up wet this morning, dreaming about things you’d never admit to wanting.”
My face flames. “You don’t know what I dreamed about.”
“I know exactly what you dreamed about.” His smile is dark, knowing, absolutely certain. “I could smell your arousal from across the fortress. Could feel it through the bond that’s already forming between us, whether you want it or not.”
I jerk away from his touch, my heart hammering. “Stay out of my head.”
“I’m not in your head, Hannah.” He lets me go, stepping back to give me space I don’t want to need. “I’m in your blood. In your body. Getting deeper every hour you spend breathing my scent, sleeping in my bed, learning to respond to my voice.”
“I’ll fight it.”
