The Runt and the Lycan King

The Training Pits

The training pits were located in the bowels of the castle, a massive cavern of sand and stone that smelled of sweat, old iron, and cold earth. As Athena and I descended the spiral staircase, the sound of my own heartbeat seemed to echo off the walls, a frantic drumming that made my palms damp.

Demetrius was already there.

He had stripped down to a simple black compression shirt that hugged every corded muscle of his torso, and his dark hair was pulled back away from his face. He was mid-motion, driving a heavy wooden staff into a training dummy with enough force to make the reinforced wood groan. When he saw us, he stopped, his gaze immediately locking onto me.

His eyes swept over me, taking in Athena’s oversized gear and the way I was nervously fidgeting with the rolled-up sleeves of the tunic. For a second, the corner of his mouth twitched—not in mockery, but in something that looked dangerously like a smile.

"You look like you’re drowning in that shirt, Rachel," he said, his voice echoing in the vast space.

"It stays up," I countered, trying to find a shred of the courage Eloise had sparked in me.

"Good. Because if you’re going to survive the marshes, you need to know how to use your hands." He gestured to the center of the sand pit. "Athena, leave us."

Athena gave my shoulder a final, encouraging squeeze before disappearing back up the stairs, leaving me alone with the King.

"Come here," he commanded softly.

I stepped into the sand, the grit shifting under my boots. Demetrius didn't loom over me; instead, he lowered his stance, bringing himself closer to my height. At first, I was a disaster. My movements were stiff, fueled by a decade of being the one who curled into a ball to take the hits, not the one who delivered them. Every time I tried to form a fist, my fingers felt like lead.

"Again," Demetrius said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet cave. "Stop thinking about the floor, Rachel. Think about the person in front of you."

I swung, but my balance was off. I stumbled, my boots sliding in the loose grit, and I felt a hot flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. I expected a sharp remark, a sneer, or the cold dismissal I’d grown used to in my old pack. But when I looked up, Demetrius was just standing there, his expression unreadable but patient.

"You’re fighting yourself," he murmured, stepping into my space. He reached out, and for a second I flinched, an old instinct I couldn't quite kill. He paused, his eyes darkening with a flash of something that looked like regret, then gently adjusted my stance. He placed his hands on my hips, turning them slightly, and the heat of his touch through the thin fabric of the tunic made my breath hitch.

"The power doesn't come from your arms," he explained, his voice right next to my ear. "It starts in the earth. It moves through your legs, your hips, and then out through your fist. Try it again. Slow."

I took a breath, trying to block out the overwhelming scent of cedar and rain that radiated from him. I pushed off my back foot, turned my hip, and let out a jab.

Thwack. His open palm caught my fist. It wasn't a perfect strike, but it was solid.

"Again," he encouraged.

I did it again. And again. Slowly, the clumsiness began to melt away. A rhythm started to take hold—a primal, steady beat that seemed to hum in my very bones. It was as if my body had been waiting for permission to move this way. Each strike felt more natural than the last, and the violet heat in my blood began to swirl, lending a strange, effortless strength to my limbs.

Maybe I can actually do this, I thought, a spark of genuine excitement flaring in my chest. Maybe I’m not just a victim.

"Better," he murmured, a glint of pride in his eyes. "Now, try to hit me. I’m going to move; you stay on me."

We began a slow-motion dance. He would lean back or sidestep, and I would follow, my breathing growing heavy as I pushed myself to keep up. I was getting faster, my reflexes sharpening with every passing minute. I felt lighter, more connected to the ground than I ever had before. I forgot about the oversized clothes, forgot about the witch, and for a few minutes, I even forgot about the bands around my soul. There was only the sound of our breathing and the shifting of the sand.

But in my excitement, I got overconfident. I saw an opening—or what I thought was an opening—and lunged forward for a heavy strike, leaving my feet too far apart.

In a blur of motion, Demetrius swept my lead leg. The world tilted, and before I could even gasp, I hit the sand with a soft thud. Before I could scramble up, he was over me, pinning my wrists to the sand beside my head, his weight straddling my hips to keep me still.

The air left my lungs, but not from the fall.

Our faces were inches apart. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, a literal wall of warmth that made my skin tingle. My breathing was ragged, my chest heaving against his, and I could see the sweat glistening on his collarbone, the pulse in his neck jumping.

The tension was a physical cord pulling us together, taut and humming. Deep inside, my wolf didn't whine or hide—she was purring. She was absolutely thrilled to be this close to him, her energy reaching out toward his Alpha aura like a flame to a moth. I could smell his scent—heavy cedar, rain-drenched earth, and something primal that was uniquely him. It filled my senses until I couldn't think of anything else.

He didn't move. His gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked almost entirely black. The world seemed to stop spinning. He was so close that if I moved my face up just a fraction of an inch, our lips would meet. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, and I found myself leaning in, my eyes fluttering shut as I sought that contact.

For a heartbeat, I thought he was going to do it. I wanted him to do it. I wanted to forget the mystery and the magic and just feel the weight of him against me.

But then, his jaw tightened until I heard his teeth grind. Demetrius abruptly let go of my wrists and pulled away, the loss of his heat feeling like a physical blow. He stood up in one fluid motion, turning his back to me for a long second as he took a deep, stabilizing breath.

He started to walk toward the weapon racks, his stride long and purposeful, the literal image of the "Merciless King" the world feared. I knew I should just turn around and head back to the safety of my suite with Athena, but something—a spark of that same "miracle of will" Eloise had mentioned—flared up in my chest.