Gregor blinked, then looked down at where Fergal’s fist had connected and slowly raised his head again.
“Harder,” Fergal said. “Or I’ll think you actually have gone soft.”
Something shifted behind those gray eyes. The teacher receded, and the warrior surfaced. And when Gregor moved, Fergal understood for the first time how this man had survived the Murphys, survived three centuries of combat, survived everything the world had thrown at him.
He was fast. Terrifyingly so for someone his size. Fergal threw a combination he’d been practicing for months—jab, cross, low kick—and Gregor deflected all three without apparent effort, his hands moving in tight, economical arcs that wasted nothing. Before Fergal could reset, Gregor was inside his guard, one massive hand on Fergal’s shoulder, spinning him off-balance.
Fergal stumbled, caught himself, and came back swinging. He couldn’t match Gregor’s skill or experience, but he was quick, unpredictable, and completely fearless, and he adapted in real time. Every exchange taught him something—the wayGregor favored his left side, the slight drop in his guard after a combination, the half-second delay when transitioning from defense to offense.
They circled each other. Both breathing hard now. Both sweating. The controlled exercise had become something rawer—not violent, but charged. Every block was a collision, every grab lingered a fraction too long, every moment of body-against-body contact sent a jolt through Fergal that had nothing to do with combat.
Gregor felt it too. Fergal could see it in the way his breathing had changed—not just from exertion but from something deeper. In the way his pupils had dilated. In the way his grip tightened on Fergal’s wrist during a block and didn’t immediately release.
Fergal struck again—a wild, reckless hook that left his entire right side exposed. Was it calculated? Was it instinct? He genuinely didn’t know. All he knew was that he’d left himself wide open, and Gregor couldn’t not take it.
Gregor caught his wrist, twisted, and swept his legs out from under him in one fluid motion. The world spun, and then Fergal was face down on the mat with Gregor’s full weight pressing him into the floor. His arm was twisted behind his back, immobilized. Gregor’s chest was a furnace against his spine, the heat of him bleeding through both their shirts, dragon fire barely contained beneath skin.
Gregor’s breath came in harsh bursts against Fergal’s ear, and this close, the scent of him was overwhelming—sweat and leather and that cedar heartwood, plus something darker now, something primal.
Neither of them moved.
Fergal’s heart hammered against the mat. Every nerve in his body was lit up, every point of contact with Gregor’s body sending signals that had nothing to do with combat. Gregor’shand burned around his wrist. Gregor’s thigh pressed heavy between his own. Gregor’s breath, ragged and hot, stirred the hair at Fergal’s temple. And Gregor’s cock—hard and thick—pressed against Fergal’s ass.
He should yield. That was the rule. Tap out, concede, end this before it became something neither of them could take back. Instead, Fergal rolled his hips slowly, deliberately, pushing his ass back against Gregor with an intent that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than exactly what it was.
Gregor went rigid. Every muscle in his body locked. A sound escaped him that was low, strangled, and barely human. “Yield,” Gregor rasped. His voice was wrecked. “Fergal, yield.”
His first name. Not “Your Highness.” Not “Prince Fergal.” Just Fergal, torn from somewhere deep and desperate, and hearing it in that broken voice was better than any victory Fergal had ever imagined.
He turned his head, his cheek pressed against the mat, and looked back at Gregor over his shoulder. Those gray eyes were wild—dilated nearly black, the steel swallowed by something raw and hungry and terrified.
“Make me,” Fergal whispered.
Gregor’s hand released his wrist. For a suspended, airless moment, nothing happened. Then Gregor’s body retreated, leaving Fergal shivering for a moment before Gregor’s open palm connected with Fergal’s ass with a crack that echoed off the stone walls like a gunshot.
The sound punched through the room. Through Fergal, through every defense and pretense and game he’d been playing. His gasp was involuntary, shocked out of him by the impact. The instant, blazing heat that followed lit up his nervous system like a struck match.
Gregor’s hand hovered, trembling, above where it had landed. Fergal could feel the heat of his palm radiating throughthe thin fabric of his track pants. Could feel Gregor’s breathing, which was ragged, horrified, wanting. Fergal moaned, a small, involuntary sound that slipped out before he could catch it. In the silence of the training room, it was deafening.
Gregor spanked him again. Harder. The crack was sharper this time, the sting deeper, and Fergal’s fingers curled against the mat as his back arched into it. A sound escaped through his clenched teeth—something between a hiss and a groan that seemed to shatter whatever was left of Gregor’s restraint.
A third strike. A fourth. Each one landed with devastating precision on a slightly different spot, like Gregor’s hand knew exactly where to aim for maximum impact. Every blow drove the breath from Fergal’s lungs and replaced it with fire. His entire body was burning, every nerve ending screaming, and he was so hard it was almost painful, his cock trapped against the mat with Gregor’s weight still pinning him down.
Then it stopped. Gregor wrenched himself away like he’d been burned. Fergal heard him scramble backward, boots scuffing against stone. His breathing sounded like it was being dragged through broken glass.
Fergal rolled over slowly. His ass throbbed, his heart was trying to break through his ribs, and his track pants were doing absolutely nothing to hide his arousal. He didn’t care. He was looking at Gregor.
Gregor stood with his back against the far wall, as far from Fergal as the room allowed. His face was ashen. His hands were shaking, those same hands that had just spanked a crown prince with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. His chest heaved with each breath, and his eyes… His eyes looked like a man staring at the wreckage of a catastrophe he’d caused.
Not angry. Not aroused.Destroyed.
Something shifted inside Fergal’s chest. The triumph he’d expected to feel, the satisfaction of finally cracking Gregor’s composure, evaporated. In its place was something fiercer, something protective. Because that expression on Gregor’s face showed him what Gregor was telling himself had happened. What he had done. What kind of man it had made him.
“Don’t.” Fergal sat up, his voice softer than he’d intended. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
“I just—” Gregor’s voice was barely a whisper. He looked down at his own hand like it belonged to someone else.
“You did exactly what I wanted. What I’ve been wanting for a long time. What I was all but asking for. And if you try to turn this into something shameful, I swear to every god that ever existed, I will use every single one of my abilities to make your life a living hell.”
