“Thanks,” I blurt. “For the advice. And for… the nose.”
He doesn’t lift his head or look at me, which is a blessing because I’m sure my face is bright red.
I don’t know what the fuck that was. I’ve neverthankedStark before. I never thought I’d be grateful for anything he could do to me.
Forme, I mean.
Actually, I was pretty sure he had a murder-wall with a hundred drawings of my face on it, eyes all scratched out.
He raises his hand in acknowledgment, the only indication that he’s heard me, and I leave, trying to ignore the weird disappointment humming through my veins.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Alpha training with Stark continues to pass with painstaking slowness. Every day is a battle. He seems to take great satisfaction in sending me home battered and exhausted.
It’s not for nothing, though.
As much as I hate to admit it, he knows what he’s doing. There’s a method to his unrelenting brutality.
Sometimes I hate him. Stark isn’t above kicking me when I’m down—literally—in fact, he seems to relish taking every opportunity to do so. But after three weeks of his daily lessons, I’m stronger both mentally and physically. My body is hardened from the hours and hours of fight training, my mind sharpened from the endless tactical study.
I’m actually grateful to him—not that I would ever say so. I’m starting to feel like an Alpha. Or at least like there’s some hope I can actually fulfill the role.
Today, I’ve been holding my own for almost the entire lesson. But Stark is significantly stronger than me, has years of battle experience, and his stamina is insane.
My only physical advantage is speed—and it’s not a big one. He’s a lot faster than a man his size has any right to be.
My other advantage is the down-and-dirty tricks I learned while fighting in the pits. There haven’t been many opportunities to use them, though. Stark’s superior skills have kept me almost entirely on the defense.
But today, after an hour of savage hand-to-hand, he starts to flag.
It’s subtle—I only see it because I’ve become so intimately familiar with the way he moves. There’s no hesitation in his attacks, but he’s not hitting quite as hard and fast as before.
He’s sweating, flushed, face screwed into a scowl of intense focus.
For the first time since we started this routine, he’s nearing his limit. Which means I have an opportunity that might never appear again.
I mirror his slowed movements, projecting my own exhaustion. Letting him think I’m losing my edge.
And just like that, he gives me an opening.
In an adrenaline-driven flash, I drop to the floor and sweep his legs out from under him, rolling onto his chest as he lands.
His hands clamp onto my knee as I press it against his throat. He could throw me off, but if this were a real fight, I would have already crushed his trachea.
He’s down. Beaten.
There’s a brief moment of shock—mineandhis—as I stare into his eyes.
Then his hand tightens around my knee, my body hyper-aware of the contact. He strokes his thumb on my leg and warm sparks explode through my body. I’m starved for physical contact that isn’t brutal, I remind myself; Killian and I have continued to keep things chaste until I can figure out how Anassa wants to handle the bond.
While I’m distracted by the sensation, he yanks my knee to the side and I tumble forward, the apex between my thighs skirting dangerously close to his mouth.
I roll to the side as quickly as I can, flopping onto the floor next to him. The air is filled with the twin sounds of our ragged breath.
“I beat you,” I pant out, pretending that I didn’t get thrown entirely off my game at the end.
“You did,” he says, letting me have the win.
