“Well, safe from death, at least. I can’t speak for Kas,” he adds with a wink, and continues. “Forget that L-name and never say it out loud again, understand?”
I stay quiet, but inside me something clicks. A name I’m not supposed to remember suddenly feels so important. I need to find out what is happening and who Lucien is.
Kasien
Age 18
The hit comes so fast I don’t even see the arm, just the impact. A fist slams into my ribs from the right side, exactly where my guard is a half-second too slow. The air punches out of my lungs and my vision sparks white for a moment.
I stumble back, feet scraping the mat, and before I can reset my stance, another strike comes from the opposite angle. A classic defense drill, only this time he isn’t holding back. I bring my forearm up just in time and the next blow crashes into the bone with a dull thud. Pain radiates through my wrist.
He doesn’t pause. He never does. He closes the distance immediately, grabbing the back of my neck in a clinch, shoving my head downward with brutal force. My spine folds whether I want it to or not. I try to break the clinch the way we were taught—hand on his wrist, forearm cutting inside to create space. But he jerks me forward at the same moment and my forehead nearly cracks against his shoulder.
My nose fills with the smell of sweat and the rubber of the training mats. He’s going for the knee to the face. I feel the shift in his hips before it even comes. I turn sharply, driving my forearm diagonally across his thigh to disrupt the strike, and drop my weight. My left foot pivots, my right shoots up in a groin kick, the kind we’re technically supposed to "pull" during drills.
I don’t pull it enough.
He grunts, grip loosening, and I wrench myself free, sucking air back into my lungs.
I burst forward. My fist connects with something solid—jaw or cheek, I can’t tell. My palm slams next, pushing his head back. I follow with a tight elbow strike aimed at the side of his temple. But he blocks it. His hand snaps up, catches my elbow, and before I can redirect, he yanks me forward, twisting my balance out from under me.
My feet skid. His shoulder drives into my chest, taking me down in a body-drag takedown they usually teach only to older students. My back hits the mat so hard the shock steals my breath again.
His knee drops onto my sternum. Not a full strike, but enough weight to pin me. His forearm comes across my throat once more, angled perfectly, just enough pressure to hurt, not enough to crush.
Before I can twist out of it, Adrien switches positions in one fluid motion and is straddling me now. Knee on either side of my hips, weight dropped low, pinning me to the mat so effectively that even the instructor glances over for a second.Adrien braces one palm on my chest, the other raised for another strike, drops of sweat sliding down his curls.
“Again,” he growls.
I freeze for half a second. This exact position hits my brain like a punch.
Kiara on my lap in the car two days ago, fingers in my hair, dress hiked up, her breath in my mouth. Her weight settled on me in that perfect, stupid way that made every molecule in my body rebel at once. Instant heat crawls up my neck.
No fucking way in hell is my brain replaying that while Adrien is straddling me in a sweaty gym.
I blink, exhale sharply, and glare up at him.
He’s practically engineered to look like an emotionally unavailable angel with razor blades for cheekbones, but that does nothing for me except make me want to punch him.
“Get the fuck off,” I mutter.
He raises an eyebrow, deadpan.
“Make me,” he smirks.
Adrien’s weight holds me down just enough to piss me off, not enough to actually keep me there.
I roll my eyes so hard it should count as a warm-up stretch. Before he can even finish his smirk, I snap my hips to the side, trap his wrist, and twist.
He loses balance for half a heartbeat, which is enough.
I plant my foot, bridge up hard, and flip him clean off me. He hits the mat with a dull thud and a very offended inhale. I get up in one motion, wiping sweat from my face with my T-shirt, but it’s completely soaked. Adrien sits up, ruffles his hair back, and scoffs.
“Finally awake,” he mutters.
I snort. “You’re heavy.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re distracted.” He smiles.
