Between the Lies - 1
778 Words
The morning after my nightmare, I woke to find a tray outside my door.
Coffee black, the way I'd mentioned I liked it once. Fresh pastries still warm from the oven. A note in bold, angular handwriting: Thought you might need this. –K
I stared at the tray for a long moment.
He was making this so much harder than it needed to be.
The training yard was empty when I found it three days later.
I'd been exploring memorizing exits, I told myself, not looking for anything specific when I heard the rhythmic thud of fists against leather.
Kade stood in the center of the yard, shirtless and sweating, working a heavy bag with brutal efficiency. Each punch was controlled. Precise. The kind of form that came from years of discipline.
I should have left.
Instead, I watched.
He moved like violence made poetry. All coiled power and controlled rage, channeling something dark into something useful.
"You going to stand there all morning, or are you going to tell me what I'm doing wrong?"
I jumped. He hadn't even looked up.
"Your left guard drops," I said before I could stop myself. "After the third combination. Leaves your ribs exposed."
He stopped. Turned.
Looked at me with those storm-gray eyes that saw too much.
"Show me."
"What?"
"Show me." He gestured to the bag. "If you're going to critique, back it up."
It was a challenge.
And I'd never been good at walking away from those.
I stepped into the yard. Approached the bag.
"Here." I demonstrated the combination, keeping my guard tight. "See? Left stays up even through the rotation."
"Again. Slower."
I did it again. He moved closer, watching my form.
"You've had professional training," he said. Not a question.
"I told you"
"I know what you told me." He stepped behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. "But surviving doesn't teach you proper striking form. Doesn't teach you to rotate from the hips like that, to keep your weight centered."
His hand came to my waist—light, barely touching.
"Someone trained you. Really trained you."
I should pull away. Should maintain the distance.
But my body had other ideas.
"My father," I said. The truth, for once. "He trained me from when I was young. Said every wolf should know how to fight, bond or no bond."
"Smart man."
The words were soft. Respectful.
I turned to face him. "You didn't know him."
"No. But he raised you. That tells me enough."
The sincerity in his voice made my chest tight.
"Teach me," I said suddenly. "How to fight like you do. Like an alpha."
Something shifted in his expression. "Why?"
Because I need to stop feeling helpless. Because I need to remember why I'm here. Because maybe if we're hitting things, I'll stop noticing how you look at me.
"Because I never want to be helpless again," I said.
He studied me for a long moment.
Then nodded.
"Tomorrow. Dawn. Don't be late."
He was brutal.
Not cruel Kade never hurt me, always pulled his strikes, was careful of my still-healing side. But he pushed me harder than anyone had in five years.
"Again," he said, after I'd thrown him for the third time.
I was breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes.
"I got you down. That's the point."
"The point is survival. In a real fight, I'd have snapped your arm during that throw. Your grip was sloppy." He stood, offered his hand. "Again."
I took his hand.
Ignored how the touch sent electricity up my arm.
We trained every morning after that. Dawn sessions that left us both exhausted and oddly content. He taught me alpha techniques not just fighting, but strategy, reading opponents, using power dynamics.
I taught him the guerrilla tactics I'd learned surviving alone. How to fight dirty. How to disappear.
We didn't talk about the bond. Didn't acknowledge how we'd started staying longer each session, finding excuses to touch, to be close.
Didn't mention how the training had started to feel less like combat and more like a dance.
It was a week after we started training when everything shifted.
We were sparring contact, but controlled. He swept my legs, I rolled and came up behind him, he spun and caught me around the waist.
We froze.
His arms around me. My back pressed to his chest. Both of us breathing hard from exertion.
The moment stretched.
"Sera," he said quietly.
I should move. Should step away.
I tilted my head back instead. Looked up at him.
His eyes had gone dark. Pupils blown.
"We should stop," he said.
- Writer
