Run
1401 Words
Reza
“You’re late.”
Jason’s voice cuts clean through the training hall, sharp enough that it stops me mid-step.
I glance automatically at the wall clock. “I’m on time.”
He turns then.
Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just enough that his full attention lands on me. Direct, unflinching, utterly uninterested in charm or explanation.
“On time is late when you’re being tested.”
That answers a question I hadn’t asked yet.
Something settles in my chest. Recognition.
“Are you testing me?” I ask.
“No,” Jason says. “I’m observing.”
He gestures toward the mat with two fingers. “Show me how you move.”
No warm-up. No instruction. No framing.
Just expectation.
I drop my bag and step onto the mat, letting my body take over before my thoughts can interfere. I don’t embellish. I don’t restrain. I move the way I’ve been trained to move. Efficient, adaptive, responsive. Each shift of weight deliberate, each strike measured, every recovery precise.
Jason doesn’t interrupt.
He doesn’t correct.
He just watches.
The silence stretches long enough that my breathing becomes the loudest thing in the room. Sweat slicks my skin, muscles burning in that deep, familiar way that tells me I’m working honestly, not performing.
When I finish, I hold position, still, ready.
Jason circles me once. Slow. Assessing. Like he’s reading something written into muscle memory rather than watching a demonstration.
“You’ve been taught by more than one system,” he says.
“Yes.”
“You adapt instead of resist,” he continues. “That’s rare.”
Not praise.
Assessment.
He stops in front of me.
“Bethany didn’t expect that,” he adds casually.
My body stills completely.
“Bethany expects a lot of things,” I say carefully.
Jason’s mouth curves, not a smile. Something closer to acknowledgment.
“She thinks you’re still being shaped,” he says. “She’s wrong.”
I meet his gaze, steady. “Then why am I still being tested?”
His eyes flick upward, just briefly.
Toward the Alpha floor.
“Because power doesn’t announce when it’s finished learning,” he replies. “And neither do Alphas.”
The session continues but differently.
He doesn’t let me escalate. Every time my temper spikes, he redirects. Grounds me. Adjusts my stance until aggression has nowhere to go but inward. It’s exhausting in a way brute force never is. Controlled restraint instead of release.
Starla bristles beneath my skin.
- He boxed us in, she complains. On purpose.
- I know, I respond, jaw tight.
By the end, my muscles tremble, not from exhaustion alone, but from the effort of not pushing past the edge he’s drawn so deliberately.
Jason steps back.
“Good,” he says.
Just that.
Not praise. Not approval.
Just assessment.
He turns toward the door.
As I wipe sweat from my brow, he pauses and glances back once. Not at my stance. Not at my footing.
At my face.
“Run,” he says. “You’re carrying too much.”
Then he’s gone.
The door closes behind him with a soft, decisive click.
I don’t argue.
I grab my jacket and head straight out of the training wing, the need to move already clawing under my skin. Staying inside feels like suffocating. Too many walls, too much awareness pressing in from all sides.
The packhouse corridors are busy this time of day. Wolves drift between duties, conversations overlapping, laughter echoing lightly off stone and wood. The hum of shared space is alive, constant.
No one stops me.
No one watches me too closely.
That too, is new.
Apparently, the Alpha floor came with acceptance. No one gives me a second look anymore. Conversations don’t stop when I approach. The moment I was placed on that floor, something shifted. Some wolves still hesitate a beat but they correct themselves so quickly it’s almost invisible.
Almost.
But not to me.
I step outside into the gardens and break into a run before my thoughts can catch up.
The path curves between hedges and old trees, gravel crunching softly under my sneakers as my stride lengthens. The air is cool and clean, layered with earth and leaves and distant pack. My breathing evens out as my body takes over, motion stripping everything down to rhythm and burn.
Starla stretches with it, restless energy finally given space.
- Ah, this is better, she says. Movement clears the noise.
“It does,” I agree.
I push harder than necessary, legs driving, lungs burning, until the edge inside me dulls into something manageable. The gardens open wider near the center, stone benches, low walls, intersecting paths where wolves linger in the late afternoon light.
I round a corner too fast and collide with someone solid.
Hands catch my arms automatically, steadying me before I can stumble back. I blink, breath hitching,
and find myself staring straight into Bethany’s face.
“Oh,” she says lightly. “Careful.”
“I.. sorry,” I reply, stepping back.
She doesn’t release me immediately.
Her hands linger a fraction too long before letting go, the touch deliberate. Grounding.
Possessive.
Her smile is warm. Open. The kind that reads as kindness to anyone watching.
“You’re moving quickly,” she says. “Training day?”
“Yes,” I answer evenly.
“I thought so.” Her gaze flicks over me, taking in sweat-damp hair, flushed skin, the heat still radiating from my body. “You’ve been very dedicated lately.”
A compliment.
Also a reminder.
Wolves pass behind her, conversations flowing easily, laughter punctuating the air. This is not a private moment. She knows it. I know it.
“I try to be,” I say.
Bethany tilts her head. “It shows. The pack responds well to that kind of… commitment.”
Starla growls low.
- She’s circling.
- I’ve noticed, I reply carefully.
Her smile sharpens just a touch. “Of course you do.”
She steps slightly closer, lowering her voice, not enough to be secretive, just enough to feel intimate.
“It’s good you’re finding your place here,” she continues. “Especially now. Things can get confusing when roles shift.”
There it is.
I meet her gaze, unflinching. “I haven’t found it confusing.”
Bethany’s eyes flick, quick, assessing, then soften again.
“No,” she agrees. “You wouldn’t. You seem… adaptable.”
Adaptable.
Like something to be shaped.
Her hand lifts, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from my sleeve. The touch is light, but the message lands heavy.
“Aaron values stability,” she says casually. “It’s something the pack has always relied on. And stability...” her eyes slide briefly toward the wolves moving through the garden “is very visible right now.”
My pulse ticks faster.
“He seems capable of deciding what he values,” I say.
Bethany laughs softly. “Oh, absolutely. And everyone knows where he stands.”
Her gaze holds mine.
Everyone.
The implication settles cold and deliberate between us.
I could lash out.
The words are there, sharp, true, waiting. I could cut through the pretense and name exactly what she’s doing. Exactly how territorial this friendliness really is.
Starla snarls, claws itching.
- Say it. Mark the line.
But the garden is full. Wolves pass within earshot. Eyes glance our way, not curious but neutral.
Any reaction from me will become the story.
I inhale slowly.
“I should finish my run,” I say.
Bethany steps back, gracious. “Of course. Don’t let me interrupt.”
She smiles again, brighter this time. “Take care of yourself, Reza. It’s important to protect what you think is yours.”
The words echo.
I turn and jog away before my restraint fractures completely.
My heart pounds harder than the run demands, heat flaring under my skin. Anger simmers. Controlled, contained, but sharp enough to hurt.
She thinks she’s claimed something.
She thinks proximity equals ownership.
Starla bristles.
- She is guarding territory, she says. Not him. Herself.
- I know, and she wants me to react.
By the time the gym doors come into view, the decision is already made.
I don’t go upstairs.
I don’t go back into the packhouse where eyes and expectations wait.
I push through the gym door and let it slam shut behind me.
- Writer
