IRIS
The next morning, I woke to the sound of steel ringing against steel. It was a sharp, rhythmic clang, a sound of violence and discipline that echoed in the cold stone of the stronghold. I sat up in the huge bed, the heavy furs pooling around my waist, and listened. The sound was coming from outside, from the training grounds I had seen from the balcony. Through the open balcony doors, I could hear the grunts of exertion, the thud of bodies hitting the earth, the sharp commands of instructors. It was the sound of a warrior culture, a world I had only ever read about in dusty old texts.
My body was stiff, a dull ache in my muscles from the tension and the fall. My arm, where the ward had rejected me, was a map of angry red welts, a stinging reminder of my own dangerous incompetence. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the hum of the bond, a low, thrumming awareness of his presence. He was out there, in the thick of it, his power a dark, dominant force in the psychic landscape of our connection. He was in his element. And I was in his cage.
I pushed myself out of bed and went to the wardrobe, a massive carved monstrosity that smelled of cedar and him. Inside were clothes that had clearly been left for me. They were not my style. My own clothes were practical, comfortable things—worn jeans, soft cotton shirts, sturdy boots. These were… different. Silken tunics in deep jewel tones, leather trousers that looked soft and supple, and dresses that were more decorative than functional. They were the clothes of a consort, not a hedge witch. A deliberate choice to remind me of my place.
With a surge of defiance, I ignored the finery. I pulled on a simple pair of black leather trousers and a dark green, long-sleeved tunic. The leather was soft, but it felt restrictive, a second skin I wasn't used to. I braided my hair back from my face in a severe, tight plait, a warrior's style I hadn't worn since I was a girl learning basic defense magic from Elara. If I was going to be forced into his world, I would not do it as a delicate doll. I would do it as a warrior.
The door to the chamber opened without a knock. Kaelen stood there, filling the doorway with his imposing presence. He was freshly showered, his dark hair still damp, and he wore a similar style of training leathers as the day before, only these were newer, less worn. His scent was stronger this morning, a clean, sharp bite of pine and rain that cut through the lingering scents of the room. His silver eyes swept over me, a slow, deliberate perusal that felt like a physical touch.
"You're up," he said, his voice a neutral observation. "Good. We have work to do."
"I'm not your pet," I said, my voice flat. "I don't respond to summons."
A faint, dangerous smile touched his lips. "No. You're a liability. And I don't leave liabilities unattended. You're coming with me."
"Where?" I challenged, crossing my arms. "Another charming tour of your dungeons?"
"The training grounds," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Your display last night proved you have no control. Your magic is a loaded weapon with a hair trigger. Until you learn to handle it, you're a danger to yourself and everyone in this stronghold. I'm going to teach you how to defend yourself without it. And maybe, if you're lucky, how not to blow a hole in my walls."
The insult was a deliberate goad, but I couldn't deny the truth behind it. My magic was a chaotic mess, and the thought of it being so volatile terrified me. The idea of being trained by him, of being put in a position of physical submission, was galling. But the alternative—remaining an ignorant, unstable threat—was worse.
"Fine," I bit out, turning away from him to hide the flicker of reluctant agreement in my eyes. "Lead the way, oh great and powerful master."
I felt the sharp spike of his anger through the bond, a hot, prickling flash. He was on me in two strides, his hand clamping around my upper arm, spinning me to face him. His grip was like iron, a clear, unspoken warning.
"Do not call me that," he growled, his face inches from mine. His silver eyes were cold, hard chips of ice. "You will not use that word. Not in jest, not in anger. Not ever."
The intensity of his reaction surprised me. It wasn't just annoyance; it was a deep, visceral rejection of the term. For a moment, I saw a flicker of something else in his eyes, a shadow of an old pain. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Or what?" I whispered, refusing to back down, even with his hand bruising my arm. "You'll punish me?"
His gaze dropped to my lips, and for a heart-stopping second, I thought he was going to kiss me again. The air between us grew thick and heavy, charged with the memory of our last violent confrontation. But then, his jaw tightened, and he shoved me away from him, not hard, but with a clear, deliberate dismissal.
"Come on," he bit out, turning his back on me. "We're wasting daylight."
I followed him out of the chambers, my heart hammering against my ribs. We walked through the stone corridors, guards bowing their heads as we passed. Their respect for him was absolute, a palpable wave of deference that washed over me, making me feel like an intruder. The training grounds were a vast, open expanse of packed earth, surrounded by a high, stone wall. Dozens of Lycans were sparring, their movements a blur of speed and power, the air filled with the sounds of combat and the sharp, musky scent of their animal forms.
All activity stopped when we entered the yard. Every eye turned to us, a sea of intense, assessing gazes. I could feel their curiosity, their suspicion, and their unwavering loyalty to their Alpha. I was an anomaly, a witch in their midst, bound to their king. I was a threat. And they made no secret of it.
Kaelen ignored them, leading me to a smaller, more secluded sparring circle at the edge of the grounds. He picked up two wooden practice staves from a rack, tossing one to me. I caught it awkwardly, the smooth, heavy wood feeling foreign in my hands. I had learned basic staff fighting as part of my magical training, a way to focus energy and movement, but I had always relied more on my magic than my physical strength.
"Your stance is all wrong," he said, circling me like the predator he was. "You hold it like a broom, not a weapon. Your grip is too loose, your balance is off. You're telegraphing every move before you even make it."
"I'm sorry, I forgot my resume included 'hand-to-hand combat specialist'," I retorted, shifting my grip on the staff. "My skills tend more toward the esoteric end of the spectrum."
"Magic is a crutch when your body fails," he said, stopping in front of me. "And it will fail. It's already failing you. It's volatile, emotional, and unreliable. Your body is the only weapon you can truly count on. Now, defend yourself."
Without another word, he attacked.
It wasn't a practice lunge. It was a full-on, controlled assault. His staff moved with blinding speed, a whistling arc aimed directly at my head. I reacted on pure instinct, throwing my own staff up to block the blow. The impact was jarring, a solid, bone-rattling thud that vibrated all the way up my arms. The force of it sent me stumbling back a step, my hands stinging from the shock.
"Better," he conceded, a grudging note of approval in his voice. "But your block was clumsy. You used too much arm, not enough body. You're fighting the staff, not working with it. Again."
He came at me again, a series of rapid, precise strikes—left, right, a feint to the head followed by a sweep at my legs. I blocked, parried, and jumped, my movements clumsy and reactive. I was entirely on the defensive, my mind scrambling to keep up with his speed and strategy. He was toying with me, probing my defenses, finding every weakness with a ruthless, analytical precision.
Sweat began to bead on my forehead, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My tunic was starting to stick to my skin, the leather trousers feeling impossibly tight and restrictive. The air was thick with the scent of our exertion, the clean sweat of his body mingling with my own, a strangely intimate, musky aroma that was distracting and unnerving.
"You're thinking too much," he said, landing a light tap on my ribs that made me wince. "You're trying to anticipate my next move instead of reacting to the one I'm making. Stop fighting in your head. Fight with your body."
He lunged again, and instead of blocking, I did as he said. I let go of the frantic analysis in my mind and just reacted. I sidestepped his thrust, swinging my staff in a wide arc toward his side. He moved with impossible speed, turning my momentum against me, hooking his staff behind my knee and yanking my legs out from under me.
I hit the ground hard, the air rushing from my lungs in a pained grunt. The impact was stunning, my vision swimming for a second. Before I could even think to get up, he was on me, his knee pressing into my back, pinning me to the earth. One of his hands grabbed my wrist, twisting the staff from my numb fingers. His other hand braced on the ground next to my head, his body a heavy, suffocating weight over mine.
I was completely immobilized. Trapped. His body was a furnace, the heat of him seeping through my clothes, a stark contrast to the cold, hard ground beneath me. His scent was everywhere—in my lungs, on my skin, an inescapable, potent drug. I could feel the hard, muscular lines of his chest pressed against my back, the solid weight of his thigh on my legs. Every inch of me was in contact with every inch of him.
The bond, which had been a low, manageable hum, suddenly roared to life. It was a tsunami of raw, primal energy, a wave of heat and need that was so intense it was almost painful. My body, traitorous and wretched, responded instantly. A deep, hollow ache throbbed to life between my legs, my nipples pebbling into tight, sensitive points against the rough fabric of my tunic. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped my lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated need.
I could feel his own sharp intake of breath, the sudden, tense stillness of his body. He felt it too. The shared arousal. It was a feedback loop of desire, his stoking my own, and mine sending his spiraling out of control.
"Get off me," I choked out, my voice a hoarse, desperate whisper. I hated this. I hated him. But most of all, I hated my own body for its treacherous, immediate response to his proximity.
"You asked me to teach you," he growled, his voice a low, rough rumble right next to my ear. His breath was hot against my neck, a tantalizing caress that made me shiver. "This is a lesson. You're on the ground. You've lost. What do you do now?"
He was trying to teach me. He was trying to maintain control, to frame this as a lesson, a tactical exercise. But his body was telling a different story. I could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against my backside, a blatant, physical proof of his own loss of control. His grip on my wrist tightened, his thumb brushing against the frantic, jumping pulse in my skin.
"I… I can't move," I stammered, my mind a haze of lust and fury. "You're too heavy."
"So you give up?" he challenged, his voice a low, dangerous taunt. "You just lie there and let your enemy have you? That's not the witch I saw in the Council Hall."
His words were a spark in the tinderbox of my anger. The fury at my helplessness, at his dominance, at my own body's betrayal, rose up, a hot, cleansing fire that momentarily burned through the fog of desire. I wasn't helpless. I was a witch.
I gathered what little magical energy I could control, not for an attack, but for a distraction. A small, focused push. I didn't aim it at him. I aimed it at the staff he had taken from me, which lay on the ground a few feet away. I sent a sharp pulse of kinetic energy at it, a small, controlled burst.
The staff jumped into the air, spinning end over end. His head snapped toward the movement, his attention diverted for a split second. It was all the time I needed.
With a surge of adrenaline, I bucked my hips, using his own weight against him. It was a classic escape maneuver Elara had drilled into me. It was just enough to destabilize him. At the same time, I twisted my body, wrenching my wrist from his loosened grip. I scrambled away from him, rolling onto my back and kicking out, my foot connecting solidly with his chest.
He grunted, the force of the kick sending him stumbling back a few steps. He didn't fall, but the surprise on his face was a small, sweet victory. I scrambled to my feet, my body trembling with a combination of exertion, adrenaline, and the lingering, frustrating ache of unspent arousal.
We stood there, facing each other in the sparring circle, both of us breathing heavily. The other Lycans in the training yard had stopped their own practice to watch us, their silence a heavy, living thing. My tunic was disheveled, my hair escaping its braid to fall in sweaty strands around my face. He looked just as undone, his chest heaving, a dark, dangerous light in his silver eyes. The air between us crackled, thick with the scent of sweat, and pine, and rain, and the potent, unspoken chemistry that was our shared curse.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. It wasn't a smile of amusement. It was a smile of appreciation, of respect for a worthy opponent. "Good," he said, his voice a low, rough growl. "Very good."
The praise, however grudging, was more disarming than any insult. It was a recognition of my strength, not my magic or my political value, but my own physical and mental resilience. And it was dangerously intoxicating.
"Don't sound so surprised," I shot back, trying to regain my sarcastic composure. "I'm not completely helpless."
"No," he agreed, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that was both possessive and frankly assessing. "You're not." He tossed the staff back to me. "Again."
We trained for what felt like hours. He pushed me, relentlessly, driving me past the point of exhaustion, past the point where my muscles screamed in protest. He taught me how to use my smaller size and speed to my advantage, how to turn an opponent's strength against them, how to find openings where none seemed to exist. It was brutal, exhausting, and utterly absorbing. For the first time since this nightmare began, my mind was not on the bond, or on Isolde, or on the suffocating weight of my captivity. It was on the next block, the next strike, the next strategy. It was a liberation I hadn't expected to find in my prison.
But the physical toll was immense. My body was one giant ache, my muscles screaming with every movement. Sweat plastered my tunic to my skin, and my hands were raw and blistered from the staff. Every time he pinned me, every time our bodies clashed in a hold or a throw, the bond would flare, a hot, sharp pulse of awareness that was a constant, tormenting reminder of the attraction we were both trying so desperately to ignore. The air around us was thick with it, a palpable energy that the other Lycans could probably sense. They watched us with a mixture of awe and suspicion, their Alpha and his witch, locked in a violent, intimate dance that was as much about dominance as it was about defense.
Finally, he called a halt. He tossed his staff aside, raking a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Enough for today," he said, his voice rough with exertion. "You've got a base to work with. We'll continue tomorrow."
I could only nod, too breathless to speak. I leaned heavily on the staff, my entire body trembling with fatigue. I had never been so tired in my life, but I had also never felt so… alive. The physical release of the training had channeled my anger and my fear into something productive, something tangible.
He walked over to me, stopping a few feet away. The space between us felt charged, heavy with unspoken things. He looked at me, his gaze no longer just that of a trainer, but of a man. A predator assessing his prey, but also a partner assessing his equal.
"You did well," he said, the words quiet, but carrying a weight that his earlier praise hadn't. "You learn fast. And you don't quit."
"I don't like to lose," I managed to say, my voice hoarse.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "I know."
He reached out, not to touch me, but to gently take the staff from my trembling hands. His fingers brushed against mine, and the contact was like a lightning strike. The exhausted haze of my mind was instantly vaporized, replaced by a sharp, electric jolt of pure, unadulterated lust. It was so intense, so unexpected, that a small, choked sound escaped my throat.
He froze, his eyes locking with mine. His pupils dilated, the silver of his irises swallowed by a blackness so deep it seemed to absorb the light. He felt it too. The exhaustion had stripped away our defenses, leaving nothing but the raw, primal connection of the bond. The need that simmered between us was no longer a background hum; it was a roaring inferno, demanding to be fed.
I could see the war in his eyes, the same battle from the day before. The primal urge to claim, to take, warring with his ingrained need for control. And I could see, with a terrifying clarity, that he was losing. The exhaustion, the physical exertion, the close quarters of the sparring—it had all been foreplay. A long, brutal, violent prelude to this moment.
I should have moved. I should have stepped back, broken the contact, run. But I couldn't. My feet were rooted to the spot, my body a traitorous, willing accomplice to his desire. I wanted him to close the distance. I wanted him to finish what we had started on every level. The thought was a horrifying, exhilarating surrender.
He took a slow, deliberate step toward me. Then another. The air grew thick, heavy, my breath catching in my throat. He raised a hand, his fingers hovering just an inch from my cheek, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. He was going to touch me. He was going to kiss me.
"Kaelen!"
Ronan's voice cut through the thick, sexual tension like a shard of ice. He was striding across the training yard, his face grim, a rolled piece of parchment in his hand. "Report from the eastern border. It's Marius. He's made another move."
The words were a bucket of ice water. Kaelen's hand dropped, his head snapping toward Ronan. The moment was shattered. The intense, predatory focus in his eyes was replaced by the cold, hard mask of the Alpha King. He took a sharp step back from me, the sudden absence of his heat a cold, aching void.
He looked at me, his expression unreadable, but I could feel the storm of his emotions through the bond. Frustration. Fury. And a deep, aching regret that was so potent it almost made me gasp.
"Go back to the chambers," he commanded, his voice once again the cold, hard tone of a king. "Clean up. Wait for me."
He turned and walked away without another glance, striding to meet Ronan, his shoulders rigid with renewed tension. I stood there, alone in the center of the sparring circle, my body trembling, my mind a chaotic mess. I watched him go, the powerful lines of his back a painful sight. The exhaustion returned tenfold, a bone-deep weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
I had learned to fight. But in the process, I had learned something far more dangerous. I had learned that in the heat of battle, when our bodies were pressed together in a struggle for dominance, the line between hatred and desire was terrifyingly thin. And I wasn't sure, anymore, which side I was on.