One dark eyebrow rose. “You have. We’ll correct it.”
She wanted to argue, but he was probably right. He was always right about her form, her stance, her breathing. It should have been annoying, this constant correction, this refusal to let her settle for good enough. Instead, it made something fierce and bright flare in her chest every time.
He wanted her to be better. He believed she could be better.
No one had ever believed that before.
The afternoon sun hung low over the mountains, as she moved through the forms he had taught her, her body flowing from stance to stance with increasing fluidity. Her muscles knew the movements now, remembered them even when her mind wandered.
“Again.”
She reset and began the sequence once more. Block, pivot, strike. Block, pivot, strike. The repetition had become almost meditative, a rhythm that emptied her mind and filled it with nothing but the present moment.
He circled her as she moved, his eyes tracking every shift of her weight. She felt his attention like a physical touch—the heat of his gaze on her shoulders, her hips, her hands. It made herbreath catch, made her movements sharper, made her want to do better.
“Better.” He stepped in front of her, halting her mid-form. “Your guard has improved.”
“But?”
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough. “But you still drop your elbow when you transition. Here.”
He moved behind her, his hands finding her arms to adjust her position, the same type of corrections he’d been giving her for weeks. But now his fingers lingered on her bare forearms, trailing heat in their wake. Now his breath stirred the hair at her temple as he leaned close to check her form.
“Like this,” he murmured. His chest brushed her back as he guided her through the movement. “Keep the elbow tight.”
She mirrored his instruction, overwhelmingly aware of every point of contact between them. His hands on her arms. His body a wall of warmth behind her. The rumble of his voice so close to her ear.
“Good.”
The praise shouldn’t have sent heat pooling low in her belly or made her lean back into him. But the rules had changed between them since that day in the snow. The boundaries had shifted into something new and undefined.
His hands slid from her arms to her waist, and she stopped breathing.
“You’ve earned a reward,” he said.
She turned in his grip, tilting her face up to his as his mouth descended over hers. His kiss has become so familiar—the taste of him, the pressure of his lips, the way his hands tightened on her hips when she pressed closer.
He always kept these kisses controlled, but she could feel the strain of it, the leashed power trembling just beneath the surface. She could feel how much he wanted to let go, and the knowledge thrilled her.
Her fingers curled into the rough fabric of his shirt as she rose onto her toes to deepen the kiss. A low sound escaped him—half growl, half groan—his big hand cupping her ass and pulling her closer for one exquisite minute before he raised his head.
“Ember.” Her name was a warning.
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. The gold had bled into his irises, bright and molten, and she could see traces of his beast lurking beneath the surface. It only made her want more.
“I know I shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered. “I know the rules.”
His laugh was rough. “Rules I’m finding increasingly difficult to follow.”
“Then don’t follow them.”
The words escaped before she could stop them. He went very still, every muscle in his body locking tight. For a long moment he just looked at her, and she could see the war playing out behind his eyes—duty against desire, control against instinct.
“You do not know what you’re asking.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking.”
His hands flexed on her waist, fingers digging in just enough to leave bruises. She didn’t care. She wanted his marks on her, wanted evidence of his touch that would last.
