Chapter 11 Wrestling Demons
WRESTLING DEMONS
VIKTOR
I'd been avoiding Sebastian for hours. Since our argument in the corridor. Since I'd pushed too hard and driven him behind walls I'd been trying to breach.
Since I'd realized I was completely, utterly compromised.
My comm had been silent. No requests for escort. No demands for my presence. Nothing but radio silence that felt deliberate. Pointed.
He was angry. Had every right to be.
I should've given him space. Should've maintained professional distance. Should've done literally anything except what I was doing, which was gravitating toward the training hall like a compass pointing north.
The door was already open when I arrived. Light spilled into the corridor. The sound of impact echoed against stone. Controlled breathing. Movement.
I stopped in the doorway. Couldn't help it.
Sebastian was there. Already training. Already pushing himself harder than he should after two assassination attempts and whatever injuries he was hiding.
Already shirtless.
Black compression shorts clung to his hips, riding low enough to show the cut of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband.
Tape wrapped his ribs, stark white against bronze skin that gleamed with sweat under fluorescent lights.
He moved through a sequence of strikes against the heavy bag, each hit controlled but vicious.
His back muscles flexed with each impact, every vertebra visible as his spine arched and twisted.
His cock was half-hard in those shorts. Visible outline pressing against black fabric.
He was alone. Hadn't requested backup. Hadn't asked for supervision.
Hadn't wanted me here.
I should've left. Should've respected the space he clearly needed.
I didn't.
He must've sensed my presence because he stopped mid-strike. Turned. Caught me staring.
“Come to monitor my movements some more?” he asked. Voice carrying that edge of bitterness he'd earned. “Make sure I'm not doing anything you disapprove of?”
“Did not know you were training.”
“That's the point. I can do things without your permission.” He grabbed a water bottle, drank deep. I watched his throat work. Watched a drop escape, trail down his chest. “You can leave. I'm fine on my own.”
“You are injured. Should not train alone.”
“And yet, here I am. Training. Alone.” He set down the bottle. “Shocking that I managed to survive this long without you hovering over me.”
The words stung. Because they were meant to.
“I was not hovering.”
“Right.” His jaw tightened. “Well, you can add this to your report. Prince training without supervision. How irresponsible.”
“I am not writing report.”
“No? Just mentally cataloging all my failures for future reference?”
“Sebastian—”
“Save it.” He moved back to the heavy bag. Started another combination. Harder this time. Angrier. Each hit making his cock bounce in those shorts. “Unless you're here to actually train instead of lecture me about what I can and can't do, you can leave.”
I should have left. Should have given him the space he was demanding.
Instead, I moved into the room. Set down my jacket. Started rolling up my sleeves.
He paused mid-strike. Looked at me. “What are you doing?”
“You said to train or leave. I am training.”
“I didn't invite you.”
“Do not need invitation. Is palace training hall. Is open to all security personnel.”
His eyes narrowed. “You're really going to do this? Just insert yourself into my space after I made it clear I wanted to be alone?”
“You want to be alone, go to your private chambers. You want to train in shared space, you accept that others may train also.”
It was a weak argument. We both knew it. But he didn't call me on it. Just stared at me with something between frustration and challenge.
“Fine,” he said finally. “Train. Just stay out of my way.”
“Will do my best.”
We worked in silence for several minutes. Him on the heavy bag. Me running through forms on the far side of the mat. Both of us hyperaware of the other. Both of us pretending we weren't.
My cock was already thickening in my pants. Just from watching him move. From the sounds he made with each strike. From the way sweat made his skin gleam.
The tension was suffocating.
“Your stance is off,” I said finally. Couldn't help myself.
He stopped mid-strike. “Excuse me?”
“Your left foot. You are telegraphing your kicks. Anyone with training would see it coming.”
“I wasn't aware you were watching.”
“Is impossible not to watch when you are making so much noise.”
His jaw worked. “My form is fine.”
“Your form is adequate. Could be better.”
“Then by all means, enlighten me.” He turned to face me fully. Challenge in every line of his body. His cock was definitely harder now. Pressing obvious against black fabric. “Show me how it's done, since you're so much better than me.”
The implication hung between us. Sharp. Dangerous. Nothing to do with combat.
I moved to the center of the mat. “Come here.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot show you from across room. Unless you prefer to keep making same mistakes.”
He crossed the space between us. Movements fluid despite the injuries I'd cataloged earlier.
Despite the anger radiating off him like heat.
He stopped close. Close enough that I had to tilt my head down to meet his eyes.
Close enough that I could smell him. Sweat and something clean underneath.
Something that made my mouth go dry and my cock thicken further.
“Show me then,” he said. Voice low. Challenging. “Prove you're not just here to criticize.”
I saw the bruises then. Purple and yellow blooming across his ribs. Finger-shaped marks on his bicep. Fresh bandage on his shoulder stark white against bronze skin.
“You are injured,” I said.
“I'm fine.”
“Sebastian—”
“Don't.” His voice went hard. “Don't treat me like I'm breakable. I get enough of that from everyone else.”
“You should not train like this.”
“Like what? Hurt?” He laughed. Sharp. Bitter. “You think people who want me dead will wait until I'm healed? Will schedule appointments around my recovery time?”
Fair point. Infuriating, but fair.
“We go light,” I said. Voice rougher than intended. “No full contact.”
“That defeats the purpose.”
“Purpose is to train, not damage you further.”
“I don't need you to go easy on me, Viktor. I need you to treat me like I'm capable.” His voice dropped. Intimate. “Like I'm not something fragile you have to handle with care.”
My cock was fully hard now. Pressing painful against my zipper.
“You are capable. You are also hurt.”
“Then teach me how to fight hurt.” His jaw set. Stubborn. Beautiful. His cock visibly hard, thick outline unmistakable. “Because that's the reality, isn't it? Nobody gets attacked when they're fresh and ready.”
He was right. Again. And I hated it.
“Fine,” I said. “But we stop if anything opens up.”
“Deal.”
We started with basics. Stance. Weight distribution. How to move when your body was screaming at you to stay still. I circled him, correcting posture with words instead of touch because touching felt dangerous.
“Feet wider. Lower your center of gravity.”
He adjusted. Thigh muscles flexing. His cock bobbed with the movement. I watched the shift in his balance. The way his body responded to instruction like he'd been waiting for permission to be dangerous.
“Like this?”
“Better. Now. Someone grabs you from behind. What do you do?”
“Depends on the grab.”
“Show me.”
I moved behind him, careful not to actually make contact yet. My cock pressed thick and insistent against my pants. “Arms pinned. Attacker bigger than you. What is your move?”
“Drop my weight. Disrupt their balance.”
“Good. Then?”
“Elbow to ribs. Foot stomp. Head back into their face.”
“Correct. But you are thinking too slow. By the time you decide, you are already hurt.” I stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that my chest nearly brushed his back. “May I?”
He nodded. I saw his throat work as he swallowed.
I wrapped my arms around him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides.
Felt him go tense immediately. Not fear.
Awareness. His body pressed against mine, warm and solid and fitting in ways that made rational thought difficult.
My cock pressed hard against his lower back.
He had to feel it. Had to know what he was doing to me.
His ass pushed back slightly. Deliberate. Testing.
“Do not think,” I said quietly, my mouth too close to his ear. “Just react.”
He dropped his weight like he'd said. I held firm, adjusted my stance to compensate. My cock ground against his ass. He made a small sound. Not pain.
“Good. But your elbow. Higher. Aim for solar plexus, not ribs.”
I adjusted his arm, guiding the angle. My hand wrapped around his forearm, feeling the play of muscle and tendon under skin. Feeling his pulse hammering.
His ass ground back against my cock. Harder this time. Unmistakable.
“Again,” I said, voice rough.
We ran through it three more times. Each time, he moved faster. Smoother. Each time, his ass pressed back against my cock with more pressure. More intent. Each time, I had to bite back groans. Each time, my hips rolled forward slightly. Answering. Grinding.
Each time, letting go felt like losing something.
“Now attack me,” he said, turning to face me. His cock was fully hard. Thick and long, pressing up toward his hip. A wet spot darkened the fabric where he'd leaked. “For real.”
“Sebastian—”
“I mean it. If I'm going to learn, I need real pressure. Not theory.” His eyes challenged me. Dared me. “Unless you're worried you can't control yourself around me.”
The words hit like a fist. Because he was right. I was worried. Worried that putting my hands on him would break whatever discipline I had left.
“Alright,” I said. “But controlled.”
“We'll see.”
I moved fast. Grabbed his wrist, twisted, tried to bring him down the way I would an actual threat.
He pivoted. Used my momentum against me. Almost broke the hold.
Almost.