And I’ll finally take what I’ve been waiting for.
Until then, I can be patient.
Patient as the mountain itself.Chapter 9: Hannah
Something is changing inside me.
I feel it in the way my body responds to him now—not just the unwanted arousal, but something deeper. Something that softens when he’s near, that leans toward his warmth before I can stop it, that craves his presence even as my mind screams at me to fight.
Two weeks since the arena. Two weeks of training sessions that leave me pinned beneath him, breathless and aching. Two weeks of shared meals where he asks questions no one else has ever thought to ask. Two weeks of dreams so vivid I wake up gasping, my hand already moving between my thighs before I realize what I’m doing.
I always stop myself before I finish.
But it’s getting harder.
The slap changed something between us.
I don’t regret it—he pushed too far, asking about my dreams, describing my arousal with that knowing smirk. My palmcracking across his face felt like the only honest thing I’d done since arriving at Stone Court.
But he didn’t punish me. Didn’t even seem angry. Just caught my wrist, pressed my hand to his chest, and told me the truth I already knew: I want him, and that’s not going to change.
Since then, the training sessions have grown more intense. More intimate. Like he’s testing how far he can push before I break.
This morning, I find out.
“Your guard is dropping on the left side.”
His voice cuts through my exhaustion, and I force my arm back into position. We’ve been sparring for two hours, and every muscle in my body screams for rest. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t give me a moment to catch my breath.
“Better.” The word sends warmth flooding through my chest, and I hate myself for it. “Again.”
He comes at me with a strike that would flatten a normal opponent, and I duck under it, using my smaller size to get inside his guard. For one glorious moment, I have an opening—
His hand closes around my throat.
Not squeezing. Not hurting. Just holding. His massive palm wraps around my neck like a collar, his fingers reaching all the way to my spine. My entire throat disappears inside his grip, and I’m suddenly aware of how easy it would be for him to crush my windpipe. How completely I’m at his mercy.
How wet I am between my thighs.
“Throat control,” he says, his voice dropping to that low register that makes my skin prickle. “Your opponent owns your breath, your blood, your consciousness.”
“I know what throat control is.”
“Do you?” His thumb traces the line of my jaw, and I shudder. My skin feels electric where he touches me—too sensitive, like every nerve ending has been rewired to respond to him. “Do you know how it feels to have someone else decide whether you breathe? To understand in your body—not just your mind—that your life belongs to someone else?”
I should fight. Should claw at his wrist, drive my knee toward his groin, do something other than stand here trembling while his hand wraps around my throat like it belongs there.
But there’s something else underneath the fear. Something that feels like relief.
He’s so much bigger than me. So much stronger. If he wanted to hurt me, I couldn’t stop him. If he wanted to take me right here on the training mat, there’s nothing I could do. The realization should be terrifying—and it is—but it’s also something else.
It’s freedom.
For eight years, I’ve been the one protecting everyone. The one who had to be strong, had to fight, had to carry burdens that should have broken me. No one was ever strong enough to protect me.
But he is.
The thought slides through my mind like poison, and I feel my body soften against his grip. My shoulders drop. My breathing slows. Some deep, traitorous part of me recognizesthat I’m safe in his hands—that he could destroy me, but he won’t. Not yet. Not until I’m ready.
