She's not just capable. She's exceptional.
The justification to go down to the training grounds formed in his mind, sleek and convenient. His schedule had freed up. He was the General after all—his time was his to allocate.
The panther purred its approval, a vibrating rumble deep in his chest.
Closer. Touch. Claim.
He was already moving away from the window, his decision made. He didn't bother with the door to the main corridor. He headed for the private exit that led directly to the back of the command center and the path down to the training grounds.
Each step down the stone stairs hammered the truth home. This wasn't about oversight. This was need, raw and imperative.
The scent of turned earth, sweat, andhergrew stronger with every downward stride. His blood heated and his senses sharpened until he could almost hear the rhythm of her heartbeat over the din of the jungle.
The packed earth felt like a hot plate under Raikar's boots as he stepped onto the perimeter of the training grounds. Every muscle in his body was a coiled spring as he fought the urge to step closer to his mate. Instead, he stood in the dappled shade of a massive purple-fronded tree, a silent sentinel.
Brenn was walking Jade through a standard close-quarters disarm—a quick grab of an attacker's wrist, a sharp twist, a wrenching turn to lock the opponent's arm behind their back. Raikar watched intently, his panther's senses dissecting every motion.
Brenn's movements were fluid, panther-graceful, but she was soft in the execution. The initial grab lacked the decisive snap to break a stronger opponent's focus. The twist was a hair too slow. The final lock was more of a suggestion than a command.
Sloppy.
The word was a flare in Raikar's mind. His own technique, one he'd forged in a hundred skirmishes, was being diluted. Taught to Jade with less than perfect precision. His mate deserved nothing less than the raw, efficient truth of it.
He was moving before the thought fully formed, his long strides eating up the distance between them. The low murmur of other warriors cooling down or watching from the sidelinesfaded into a hush. All eyes tracked the General as he invaded the training circle.
"You're teaching it like a dance," Raikar said, his voice cutting through the humid air.
Brenn and Talia froze, their postures snapping to respectful attention. Jade simply turned, those deep brown eyes finding his. A bead of sweat traced a path from her temple down the strong line of her jaw. She didn't flinch, but her focus sharpened, zeroing in on him with a piercing intensity that sent a jolt of pure heat straight to his core.
"Sir?" Brenn's voice was careful.
"The wrist grab." Raikar stepped into the space, the world narrowing to the three women, the dusty ground, and the magnetic pull of the woman at the center. "It's not a suggestion. It's a declaration. You don't just take the wrist. You shatter their intent."
He turned to Jade, his pulse hammering a frantic drumbeat. "Show me your guard."
She lifted her hands instantly, falling into a ready stance. The mate bond was a live wire of anticipation between them, a heady, dangerous thing.
He didn't give a warning. He lunged, his hand shooting for her leading wrist with the speed of a striking viper.
She moved with him. Not against him.
Her own hand came up to meet his, not to block, but to guide his trajectory a fraction, her body already flowing into the counter-move Brenn had demonstrated. But Raikar didn't follow the script. He let her initial deflection happen, then his other hand grabbed her other wrist and twisted it, not hard, forcing her into the lock with an inescapable, controlled pressure that drew her back flush against the solid wall of his chest.
The contact was a lightning strike inside him .
Her scent flooded him—lavender, citrus, clean sweat, and the unique, intoxicating essence that was purely her. His panther roared in triumph. Her body was a perfect, compact line of muscle against him, her breath catching in a soft, audible gasp. Heat radiated from her, seeping through his clothes and branding his skin.
"The lock isn't in the wrist," Raikar said, his voice a rough scrape near her ear. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against him. "It's here." He applied gentle, undeniable pressure to the center of her back, demonstrating how the hold controlled the entire spine, how a true master could dictate movement with a touch. "You control the core, you control the fight."
He was hyperaware of every point of contact: the curve of her shoulder against his chest, the silk of her hair brushing his jaw, the way her entire body had stilled, not in fear, but in a deep, resonant recognition that mirrored his own. The chemistry between them wasn't just palpable; it was a living thing, thick in the air, and sizzling along their connected skin.
A low whistle from somewhere in the gathered crowd snapped him back to reality.
He'd drawn an audience. Warriors had stopped their own drills, their expressions a mix of curiosity, speculation, and open skepticism.
Why is the General this close to the human? Why is he touching her like that? What's so special about her?
The questions hung in the humid air, unspoken but deafening. This was a disaster. He was broadcasting his claim with every possessive second he held her. He had to shut it down, and fast.
