The Alpha's Secret Heir

Chapter Three: Training

Morning arrived wrapped in grey light, filtering through curtains I hadn't touched since arriving. The bedroom still smelled unfamiliar—cedar and old stone and something wild I couldn't name. Somewhere in the compound, wolves were already moving, their footsteps a distant rhythm through the walls.

Training started before breakfast.

Kael led me to a courtyard behind the main hall, a wide circle of packed earth surrounded by walls scarred with generations of claw marks. The ground was uneven, worn by countless training sessions. A wooden dummy stood in the corner, its straw stuffing leaking from a dozen fresh wounds, testament to the morning's earlier practice.

"Stance first." His voice carried none of the gentleness from the night before. This was a different Kael—the Alpha, not the mate. "Feet shoulder-width. Knees bent. Hands up."

I copied the position, feeling awkward and exposed under the morning light.

"Your shoulders are tight. A rigid fighter is a slow fighter."

"I'm a librarian, not a soldier."

"Today you're both." He circled me, his footsteps silent on the packed earth. "Throw a punch."

I punched the air. It felt weak, pitiful, like slapping at smoke.

"Again. Put your hip into it."

I twisted my body, threw another punch. Better, but not by much.

"Again."

We repeated the same motion until my arm burned and my knuckles ached. Kael corrected my form with surgical precision—a nudge at my elbow here, a tap at my hip there—until the motion started to feel less foreign, more instinctive.

"Better," he said, and the single word felt like a medal.

By noon, I had graduated to blocking drills. He attacked slowly at first, telegraphing each strike, letting me learn the rhythm of defense. My reactions were clumsy but improving with each repetition.

By sunset, I had landed exactly two hits. Both were luck, but they counted.

"Not bad for a first day," Sasha said, appearing at the edge of the yard with a waterskin.

"Not bad, or good?"

"For a librarian?" She tossed me the water. I caught it one-handed. "Good."

Kael's eyebrows rose. "Reflexes are improving."

"I caught a waterskin."

"You didn't think. You just reacted." He almost smiled. "That's the first lesson."

That night, I collapsed onto my bed, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. The mark on my back pulsed with a warmth that seemed almost approving, as if it recognized the effort I had put in.

Through the bond, I felt Kael's presence—distant, steady, watching, a silent guardian I was only beginning to understand.

I fell asleep smiling, for the first time since arriving. Training was hard. But I was learning. And somehow, that felt like enough.