Chapter 29
TRAINING SESSIONS AND TACTICAL VICTORIES
~WENDOLYN~
"Is this really necessary?"
Calder's question emerges between labored breaths, his chest heaving with exertion as I continue sitting on him with triumphant satisfaction.
His face is flushed—a combination of physical effort and wounded pride at having his ass thoroughly whipped during what was supposed to be instructional self-defense training.
Teach me self-defense, he said.
Make sure my skills are still sharp, he said.
Conveniently forgetting that I maintained peak physical condition throughout my entire career.
The training mat beneath us is slick with sweat—his primarily, since I've barely broken into light perspiration during our thirty-minute session.
The early morning light filters through Station Fahrenheit's gym windows, casting a golden glow over the equipment and creating an atmosphere that should be motivational but currently just emphasizes how thoroughly I've dominated this sparring match.
5:30 AM.
He insisted on 5:30 AM for this humiliation.
Could have been sleeping.
But no, had to prove a point about my continued competence.
The conversation had emerged last night during our celebration, one full month as an official pack, commemorated with dinner that somehow evolved into an impromptu party when the entire station crew decided to participate.
One month.
Thirty days since accidental bonding transformed a temporary arrangement into something increasingly permanent.
Thirty days of learning to coexist, to cooperate, to actually function as a pack rather than a collection of individuals with incompatible personalities.
The real cause for celebration had been the official court documents arriving—a thick manila envelope containing legal confirmation that my case against Gregory's pack is moving forward with actual prosecution rather than being dismissed as property damage.
Justice.
Potential justice after months of terror and uncertainty.
The most significant development—the one that had made me actually cry with relief despite the audience—was the judge's order restricting Gregory and his pack from leaving Los Angeles until trial completion.
Confined.
Unable to travel to Montana.
Unable to orchestrate another "accident" or "finish the job" they'd started.
Actually facing consequences for attempted murder.
The relief had been overwhelming—physical weight lifting from shoulders I hadn't realized were so tense, breathing becoming easier, sleep suddenly seeming possible without nightmares of flames and locked doors.
Safe.
Genuinely safe for the first time in over a year.
No longer constantly scanning surroundings for threats, no longer jumping at unexpected sounds, no longer existing in perpetual fight-or-flight mode.
That relief had prompted Calder's inquiry about my self-defense training—whether I'd maintained skills during months away from regular practice, whether I could still protect myself if circumstances required physical confrontation.
Hence, our current position.
Me straddling his chest in a dominant pin.
Him completely unable to break free despite his superior size and strength.
Technique trumping power, as it always does.
I lean forward slightly, allowing my weight to settle more firmly across his torso, a grin spreading across my face with undisguised satisfaction.
"This must be what it's like to be a power top, hmm?" The observation is deliberately provocative, referencing our earlier conversation with Silas about Calder's particular preferences.
Power top who's currently pinned by Omega, half his size.
Irony is delicious.
He groans—a sound that's equal parts frustration and arousal, amber eyes darkening with a mixture of defeat and interest.
"Don't give me ideas," he warns, voice dropping to a register that broadcasts exactly what kind of ideas I'm inspiring. "And most certainly stop moving like that on my groin."
Oh.
Am I moving?
Apparently, I am.
Shifting slightly with each breath, creating friction that's definitely affecting him.
I grin with absolutely shameless intent, purposely adjusting my position to maximize contact—slow roll of my hips that makes his entire body tense beneath me, hands flexing where they're trapped at his sides.
Tactical advantage.
Using attraction as a distraction.
Perfectly legitimate strategy.
"Maybe next time you'll gain the upper hand," I suggest with false sympathy, grinding down slightly for emphasis. "Take me down instead of letting me spin the block and demonstrate that I'm absolutely on top of my defense game."
Pun intended.
Completely intended.
Every word is deliberately chosen for maximum impact.
His groan intensifies, transforming into something approaching dismay as his body responds enthusiastically despite his frustration at losing.
"Fine," he concedes, defeat evident in every syllable. "You win. You're clearly still capable of defending yourself against any Alpha stupid enough to try physical confrontation."
Victory.
Sweet, sweet victory.
With the side benefit of aroused Alpha beneath me.
I giggle—genuine sound of triumph and amusement, satisfaction at proving my continued competence while simultaneously affecting him in ways he's struggling to hide.
"So—" I shift conversational gears with deliberate casualness, maintaining my dominant position while introducing a topic I've been curious about. "—I heard through the nosy grapevine that you and Aidric were supposed to be official, and a certain someone—cough you cough—rejected the proposal."
Subtle.
Extremely subtle.
Not announcing my source or appearing overly invested in their history.
Calder's eye roll is theatrical, expression communicating both amusement and resignation at the revelation that small-town gossip has reached me.
He adjusts his position slightly—hands moving behind his head in a posture that's simultaneously relaxed and defensive, like he's preparing for interrogation while pretending complete nonchalance.
"Who told you that?" The question emerges with curiosity rather than accusation, clearly trying to identify a leak in the information network.
"I have my resources," I respond mysteriously, enjoying his confusion.
Hazel.
Obviously Hazel.
But I'm not revealing my source and potentially compromising future intelligence gathering.
He smirks—recognition flickering across features, putting pieces together with uncomfortable accuracy.
"Those officers can't keep their mouths shut," he mutters, more amused than actually bothered. "Small-town interconnections mean everyone knows everyone's business eventually."
True.
Irritating but true.
Privacy is a luxury that doesn't exist in communities this size.
I wait, maintaining silence that encourages him to elaborate without explicit prompting. Medical professionals and interrogators use this technique—creating space for confession through strategic quiet rather than aggressive questioning.
Works on Alphas too, apparently.
He sighs, eyes closing as he gathers thoughts or steels himself for vulnerable admission.
"I didn't accept because I knew I wanted an Omega," he begins quietly, each word carefully chosen. "Specifically wanted you, actually. Couldn't pursue a relationship with Aidric without at least attempting a connection with the one Omega who'd ever lit fire in me."
Me.
He's talking about me.
Wanted me before we even properly met.
How long has he been carrying this?
"You're the only one who really ignited that particular passion," Calder continues, vulnerability evident despite closed eyes preventing direct eye contact.
"Watched you from a distance in LA, admired your professional competence, found myself drawn to your particular combination of strength and femininity. "
He was watching me.
In LA.
Before I even knew he existed beyond generic colleague awareness.
"Aidric noticed," he admits with something approaching regret. "When I came back from LA to visit before confirming my decision to stay with the department. He saw how I talked about you, recognized that my interest wasn't a casual attraction but a genuine fixation."
Aidric knew.
Knew that Calder was interested in me specifically.
That must have made the rejection exponentially more painful.
"Think his proposal was partially secure-me move rather than organic timing," Calder's analysis is clinical, detached in ways that suggest he's processed this extensively.
"Felt like he was trying to lock me down before I could pursue other options, before the hypothetical Omega became actual competition. "
Secure-me move.
Trying to claim Calder before he could explore other possibilities.
Desperate attempt to prevent exactly what ended up happening.
"Truthfully, I didn't want that," Calder's voice carries conviction, eyes opening to meet mine with intensity that steals breath.
"Our love didn't deserve to be rushed, manipulated by fear rather than genuine readiness.
Didn't want Aidric thinking I was leaving him entirely—would have figured out a way to make long-distance work if he'd been patient. "
Would have tried.
Despite difficulty, despite distance, despite all the practical obstacles.
Would have maintained the connection if Aidric hadn't forced the ultimatum.
"But the rejection made everything burn to ash," he concludes with bitter accuracy. "Instead of communicating like mature adults, we devolved into constant arguing, passive-aggressive sniping, and avoiding actual conversation about feelings and needs."
Burned to ash.
Appropriate metaphor for a relationship consumed by miscommunication and wounded pride.
"We weren't as mature then as we are now," Calder adds with self-awareness that suggests significant personal growth.
"But I needed to explore different options before committing completely.
Needed to know whether Omega connection was a genuine possibility or just a theoretical fantasy I'd built up. "
Theoretical versus actual.