Chapter 63
SIXTY-THREE
T he industrial lighting of Artair’s private gym cast stark shadows as Thora circled the heavy bag. Each impact sent satisfying vibrations up her arms, physical exertion drowning out the clamor of her thoughts.
Sweat darkened her tank top, and loose strands of hair clung to her temples. She’d arrived at his corporate headquarters forty-five minutes ago and headed straight for the underground facility where he trained his security teams. Artair had taken one look at her expression and wordlessly handed her a pair of gloves.
Now he held the bag steady as she unleashed a flurry of combinations, her movements growing increasingly aggressive.
“Want to talk about it?” he asked, voice free of judgment.
“No.” She punctuated the word with a vicious uppercut.
“All right.” He absorbed the impact without complaint. “The bag surrender yet?”
Despite herself, Thora felt the corner of her mouth twitch upward. His ability to recognize when she needed space, when she needed humor, when she needed distraction—it was becoming disturbingly addictive.
“Shut up.” She landed a cross-hook combination that would have staggered someone less sturdy.
“Ah, so we’re at the ‘shut up’ stage of processing.” Artair’s eyes held that warm glint she’d come to recognize as gentle teasing. “Want to upgrade to sparring? Bags don’t hit back.”
Thora paused mid-combination, chest heaving. His invitation tempted her—a live opponent would demand complete focus, leaving no room for the confusion swirling through her mind.
“I’m afraid I’ll damage that handsome face of yours,” she said, the endearment slipping out without conscious thought.
Something flickered in his expression—surprise followed by pleased satisfaction. “My face has survived worse. Question is can your ego survive when I pin you?”
“When you pin me ?” She laughed, already pulling off the heavy gloves. “Your bear bulk makes you slow, Artair.”
“Bulk has advantages.” He stripped down to a fitted black tank top that showcased the muscled shoulders she’d admired more than once. “Care to find out what they are?”
The playful banter settled something inside her. This—the easy rhythm they’d developed, the mutual respect underlying their teasing—felt more real than the formal ceremony with people who were strangers despite shared blood.
They met in the center of the training mats, circling each other with the comfortable familiarity of regular sparring partners. Thora struck first, testing his defenses with quick jabs that he deflected with practiced skill. She noted how his movements combined power with unexpected grace—his bear form might be bulky, but his human form moved with fluid precision.
“So royal lineage,” he commented as they exchanged a series of strikes and blocks. “That explains a few things.”
“Like what?” She narrowed her eyes, watching for an opening in his guard.
“Your natural authority. The way you command attention without trying.” He blocked her roundhouse kick and countered with a sweep she barely evaded. “The slight regal tilt of your head when someone annoys you.”
“I don’t tilt my head,” she protested, launching a combination that drove him back a step.
His smile widened. “You’re doing it right now.”
Thora realized with dismay that she had indeed tilted her chin upward in unconscious hauteur. She used his momentary amusement to sweep his legs, but he recovered faster than expected, rolling away from her follow-up and regaining his footing in one fluid motion.
“They confirmed everything,” she admitted as they circled again. “Showed me pictures of my mother with the same birthmark as mine. Gave me a magical pendant that apparently recognizes Tiikeri blood.”
“How do you feel about it?” His question came without judgment, simply genuine interest.
The sincerity in his tone disarmed her more effectively than any physical technique. “Overwhelmed. Confused. Like I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was a stray only to discover I’m supposed to be some kind of pedigreed show cat.”
He laughed at her analogy, the sound warming something inside her. “You’re definitely not a show cat. Too many battle scars.”
“Thanks for that assessment.” She feinted left, then struck right, nearly catching him off guard.
“It was a compliment,” he clarified, blocking her follow-up punch. “Show cats are pampered, decorative. You’re...”
“I’m what?” she challenged when he hesitated.
His eyes held hers with sudden intensity. “Magnificent. Wild. Real.”
The unexpected praise threw her more than any physical strike could have. Her sabertooth preened under his appreciation, a purr building in her chest that she hastily suppressed.
They grappled for advantage, bodies pressed together in a dance of strength and technique. His scent enveloped her—pine and honey and male musk—triggering a response she couldn’t control. With each point of contact, her skin warmed, her pulse quickened. Training with Artair had always affected her, but something about today—the emotional upheaval, the discovery of her heritage, his steady presence throughout—magnified every sensation.
With a surge of determination, Thora executed a complex twist that used his momentum against him. She pinned Artair to the mat, straddling his hips with her thighs while her hands pressed his wrists above his head.
“I win,” she declared, triumph surging through her veins.
But victory felt hollow when his body shifted beneath hers, the hard evidence of his arousal pressing against her core. Their ragged breathing synced, chests rising and falling in unison as awareness crackled between them.
“Have you?” he murmured, making no attempt to break her hold despite the fact that his bear strength could easily overpower her.
The question hung between them, loaded with meaning beyond their sparring match. Thora became acutely aware of every point of contact—her thighs bracketing his hips, her hands circling his wrists, the heat radiating where their bodies pressed together.
She should move. Should reassert boundaries. Should remember all the reasons entanglement was dangerous.
Instead, she found herself lowering her face toward his until their breath mingled.
“Tell me to stop,” she whispered, offering him the out she couldn’t give herself.
His response was to lift his head, closing the final distance. Their lips met in a kiss unlike their previous ones—no hesitation, no careful exploration. This was hunger unleashed, months of tension finally snapping.