She hesitates, clearly expecting me to leave. When I don’t move—when I simply stand there, blade loose in my grip, waiting—something shifts in her expression. Resignation, maybe. Or exhaustion too deep to fight.
She steps onto the mat.
We circle each other in silence. The torchlight throws shifting shadows across the walls, painting her face in gold and darkness. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days—bruises under her eyes, tension in every line of her body, the barely-contained tremor of someone holding themselves together through sheer stubbornness.
She’s beautiful like this. Desperate and defiant and so close to shattering.
“First to three touches,” I say. “Standard rules.”
She nods and attacks.
Something’s wrong with her.
Not wrong—different. Her movements are off, her timing fractured. She’s faster than she was two weeks ago, stronger, more fluid in her transitions between forms. The training has done its work. But there’s a looseness to her now that wasn’t there before, like her body has stopped listening to her mind’s commands.
She overextends on a thrust, and I tap her ribs with the flat of my blade.
“One.”
She resets, jaw tight, and comes at me again. A combination she’s drilled a hundred times—high feint, low strike, spinning follow-up. I’ve seen it before. Should be easy to counter.
But when I catch her arm to redirect the spin, she doesn’t pull away.
She leans in.
Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for her body to press against mine, for her breath to catch, for her eyes to flutter closed like she’s savoring the contact. Then she wrenches herself back, face flushing darker, and I see the horror in her expression as she realizes what she just did.
“Again,” she says, her voice rough.
I don’t comment. Just reset and let her attack.
It happens twice more. A block that brings us chest to chest, and she freezes instead of disengaging. A grapple that puts her back against my front, and her hips roll against me before she can stop them. Each time, the contact lasts a little longer. Each time, she pulls away with more difficulty.
Her body is seeking mine without her permission. The omega instincts are taking over, overriding her warrior’s training, turning every combat exchange into an excuse to touch me.
She knows it’s happening. I can see the fury and shame warring on her face, the desperate attempt to control responses that have slipped beyond her control.
“Two,” I say, tapping her shoulder when she fails to dodge a strike she would have evaded easily a week ago.
“Fuck.” She backs away, breathing hard, and I see tears of frustration glittering in her eyes. “What’s happening to me?”
“You know what’s happening.”
“I can’t—” She shakes her head, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I can’t make it stop. I can’t make my bodylisten.”
“Your body is listening. Just not to you.” I lower my blade, watching her struggle. “It’s listening to instincts older than language. Older than thought. You’re fighting a battle you can’t win, Hannah.”
“I won’t justgive up—”
“I’m not asking you to give up. I’m asking you to understand what you’re fighting.” I move closer, and she doesn’t retreat. Can’t retreat—her feet are rooted to the mat, her body swaying toward me even as her mind screams at her to run. “The heat isn’t your enemy. It’s not punishment or violation. It’s just biology. Your body preparing itself for something it was designed to want.”
“I don’t want—”
“You do.” I stop in front of her, close enough to touch. Close enough that my scent wraps around her like a physical thing, and I watch her pupils dilate, watch her lips part, watch her hands tremble at her sides with the effort of not reaching for me. “You want it so badly you can barely stand. The only thing stopping you is pride.”
“Pride is all I have left.”
“No.” I cup her face in my hand, and she makes a sound—a broken little whimper that goes straight to my cock. “You have me.”
