YOU SAY YOU HATE ME

The Training Yard

Chapter Eight:

Dillon's POV

I didn't sleep again.

The journal sat on my nightstand like a loaded weapon. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my stepmother's hands around the goblet. Every time I breathed, I smelled the Luna's perfume—honey and lavender, fading into nothing.

I read every entry.

Twice.

Lori had been keeping this journal since she was twelve. Three years of secrets. Three years of watching her mother scheme and lie and manipulate. Three years of hating me in silence while smiling at me across the dinner table.

The worst part?

Lori wasn't the mastermind.

She was just the weapon.

Her mother—Elena—had been pulling the strings all along. Elena, who sat on the council. Elena, who had tea with the Alpha's wife. Elena, who smiled at the Luna while plotting her death.

"Mother says the Luna deserves what's coming."

"Mother says the pack will be better off without her."

"Mother did it. I watched."

I wanted to throw up.

Instead, I closed the journal, hid it under a loose floorboard beneath my bed, and lay in the dark until the sun rose.

Combat training was at dawn.

I hadn't slept. I hadn't eaten. I hadn't done anything except memorize every word in that journal and try to figure out who "D" was.

Derek Vance?

Marcus Hale?

Someone else entirely?

I pulled on my training clothes—black leggings, a gray tank top, my hair twisted into a tight knot—and walked to the gym before my brain could talk me out of it.

The morning air was cold.

Fog clung to the ground, thick and damp, muffling the sounds of the pack waking up. I could hear voices in the distance. Laughter. The clang of pots from the dining hall.

Normal sounds.

Every day sounds.

The sounds of a world that kept spinning while mine fell apart.

The gym was almost empty.

A few early risers stretched on the mats. A pair of warriors practiced drills in the corner, their movements sharp and synchronized.

I found an open space near the wall and started my warm-up.

Jogging in place.

Arm circles.

Neck rolls.

Deep breaths that did nothing to calm the storm in my chest.

Focus, I told myself.

You're here to train. To get stronger. To survive.

Not to think about him.

Not to think about the journal.

Not to think about—

The doors slammed open.

Lucien walked in.

He wasn't alone.

Lori was with him.

They moved like they'd done this a hundred times—his hand on the small of her back, her shoulder brushing his arm, their steps synchronized in a way that made my stomach twist.

I looked away.

Too fast.

Too obvious.

I could feel my face burning.

Don't look at them.

Don't look at him.

Don't—

"Everhart."

Theron's voice cut through the room like a blade.

I looked up.

He was standing near the center mat, a clipboard in his hand, his expression unreadable.

"You're paired with Blackwell today."

My blood went cold.

"Which Blackwell?" I asked, even though I already knew.

Theron's eyes flicked to Lucien.

"The Alpha heir."

The room got very quiet.

I could feel everyone watching. The early risers. The warriors in the corner. Lori, whose smile had frozen into something sharp and dangerous.

Lucien's jaw tightened.

"You're joking," he said.

Theron didn't blink. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

"She's not trained for my level."

"She ranked in the top five percent at her boarding school. She can handle you."

Lucien's eyes snapped to mine.

Something passed between us.

Not heat. Not hatred.

Something worse.

Recognition.

He knew I'd been watching him.

And I knew he'd been watching me too.

"Fine," he said flatly. "But when she breaks, it's not my fault."

Theron grunted. "Then don't break her."

The mat was cold under my bare feet.

Lucien stood across from me, arms crossed, face unreadable. He'd stripped off his jacket, and his arms were bare—muscles I didn't remember, scars I'd never seen.

Three years.

Three years of training. Fighting. Growing.

He wasn't the boy I'd known.

Neither was I.

"Rules," Theron called out. "First to pin wins. No claws. No shifting. No magic, dark or otherwise. This is about control, not destruction. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," we said in unison.

Our eyes didn't leave each other's.

"Begin."

Lucien moved first.

Fast. Too fast.

I barely had time to block as his fist came toward my face—not enough to hurt, but enough to test me. To see if I'd flinch.

I didn't.

I caught his wrist, twisted, and swept my leg toward his knees.

He jumped back.

His eyes widened.

Just a fraction.

Just enough for me to see that he hadn't expected me to fight back.

"You've been training," he said.

"Three years is a long time."

"Not long enough."

He came at me again.

Harder this time.

A punch to my ribs. A knee toward my stomach. I blocked both, but barely. My arms were already bruising.

He was stronger than I.

Faster.

But I was smarter.

I'd spent three years fighting people who wanted to hurt me. Boys who thought a lone wolf was an easy target. Girls who wanted to prove themselves against the Luna killer.

I knew how to survive.

Lucien lunged.

I dropped.

Rolled under his arm, came up behind him, and locked my elbow around his throat.

He froze.

The room went silent.

"The pin," I whispered against his ear, "is about control. Not destruction. Remember?"

His body was rigid against mine.

I could feel his heartbeat.

Fast.

Too fast.

And then—

He grabbed my arm, twisted, and flipped me over his shoulder.

I hit the mat hard.

The air left my lungs in a rush.

Lucien was on top of me before I could move, his knees pinning my hips, his hands trapping my wrists above my head.

His face was inches from mine.

"Control," he said quietly, "is about knowing when to stop playing nice."

I stared up at him.

His eyes were dark.

His breathing was uneven.

And his body—

His body was pressed against mine, and I could feel everything. The heat of him. The tension in his muscles. The way his heart was still racing, even though the fight was over.

Let me go, I wanted to say.

But the words wouldn't come.

Because some part of me—the stupid, traitorous part that still remembered what it felt like to be loved by him—didn't want him to move.

Lori's voice shattered the moment.

"That's enough, Lucien."

He released me like I'd burned him.

Scrambled to his feet.

Didn't offer me a hand.

I pushed myself up slowly, my body aching, my face carefully blank.

Lori was standing at the edge of the mat, her arms crossed, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.

"Good match," she said sweetly. "Maybe next time, Dillon won't need my fiancé to go easy on her."

My hands curled into fists.

He didn't go easy on me.

But I wasn't going to argue with her.

Not here.

Not now.

"Everhart," Theron called out. "Water break. Blackwell, you're with me."

Lucien walked away without looking back.

Lori stayed.

She stepped onto the mat, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Roses. Just like her room.

"Careful, big sister," she murmured. "People might get the wrong idea."

"What idea is that?"

"That you're trying to steal what's mine."

I met her eyes.

"I don't want what's yours."

"Good." Her smile widened. "Because he's not yours. He's never been yours. And if you forget that again..." She leaned closer. "I'll remind you."

Then she turned and walked away, her hips swaying, her golden hair catching the light.

I watched her go.

And I thought about the journal hidden under my floorboards.

About the entry where Lori wrote: "Mother did it. I watched."

About the locket with the Luna's picture.

About the letter signed "D."

About everything I knew and everything I couldn't prove.

Lori thought she'd won.

She thought I was still the scared fifteen-year-old who'd let her destroy my life.

But she was wrong.

I wasn't scared anymore.

I was angry.

Angry women were dangerous.

I finished training in silence.

Avoided Lucien's eyes.

Avoided Lori's smirk.

Avoided the whispers that followed me off the mat and into the locker room.

When I was alone, I leaned against the cold tile wall and pressed my hands to my face.

You can do this, I told myself.

One day at a time.

One clue at a time.

One breath at a time.

But my hands were shaking.

And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't forget the way Lucien's body felt against mine.

The way his heart raced.

The way his eyes looked at me like he was seeing someone he used to know.

I hated him.

I had to hate him.

Because if I didn't—

If I let myself feel anything else—

I'd lose everything all over again.