Chapter 15 #3
Kingston walks closer to me until we’re toe to toe, looking down at me before taking one hand and pushing my lower back in and taking the other to push my shoulders down. The skin feels burned where he touched it. Not from flames but more like frostbite.
“Balance. Without it, you’ll have difficulty distributing your weight. Size doesn’t matter,” he adds. “All weight has to be distributed. Even when there isn’t much to allocate. Now spread your feet shoulder width apart and slightly bend your knees,” he orders with quiet authority.
I feel ridiculous, but do as instructed.
“Good. Now raise your hands in front of your face while making a fist with each hand,” he states while walking around me in a circle. “Blocking is just as important as swinging. Potentially more so. A well-delivered punch will remove you from a fight before you even have a chance to begin.”
I raise both hands in front of my face, curling them into fists.
Apparently, it’s a bit too high because he grabs both in his much larger hands and slightly lowers them to nose and mouth level.
“If you put them in front of your eyes, you won’t see a punch coming. The left guards your temple, and the right is for your opponent. You never lower your guard unless you’re actively throwing a fist toward the enemy.”
I blow a loose tendril of hair out of my face. “I know how to throw a punch. What I need to learn is how to fight.”
“Hit me,” he orders.
“Hit you?” I repeat back to him like a damn parrot.
“Did I stutter?” he demands, throwing my earlier jab back at me.
I don’t need to be told twice.
I swing hard, putting every ounce of my weight behind the punch. My body flies forward, and I brace for impact. He sidesteps, making it look effortless like I punched him in slow motion. I stumble, catching myself just before I hit the ground and make an even bigger fool of myself.
“Dead,” he delivers without an ounce of sympathy.
“You’d be dead if this were real. There’s more to a punch than just extending your arm.
Precision, focus, control, and breathing are all factors that have to be taken into consideration before landing the hit.
” He shakes his head in disappointment. “You lack all of them.”
Thankfully, he isn’t blunt or anything.
He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. The sides are still shorter than the top, but when it’s not perfectly poised and is disheveled like it is now, he looks more primal and less refined.
I hold my hands up. “Okay, so all I have to do is stand with a certain posture, maintain solid eye contact while breathing correctly with my guard up before throwing a punch with precision and control,” I drawl.
“Precisely,” he deadpans.
This is pointless. I’m as good as dead.
“That’s impossible. How can anyone maintain all of that while in the heat of battle? I can’t focus on perfect form and try to vanquish someone.”
He just stares at me.
I try not to fidget under his scrutiny. He’s acting as if I’ve said something ridiculous.
“Let’s focus on throwing a punch, and then we’ll get to the vanquishing part.
Once you establish a fighting pattern, you won’t have to think about it during battle.
It will come as naturally as breathing.” He steps back onto the mat.
“It’s as much a tether to your core as your abilities manifesting. ”
“If you say so—”
“I do.”
“Then let’s practice.”
“So eager to end up on your back, I see,” he taunts.
I roll my eyes and get into the fighting position. “I’m not your type, remember?” I remind him.
“Impossible to forget,” he delivers without missing a beat.
It still feels ridiculous, but I go with it, shifting my weight from foot to foot like I’ve seen others do before they beat the shit out of each other. Kingston doesn’t do any of the things he taught me. Instead, he just faces me with his arms crossed.
“Do I just try and hit you now?” I ask, my eyes flickering toward him.
He raises a brow. “That’s the general idea, unless you would rather just look at me.”
I step forward, throwing a punch at his jaw—more emotion than form—and am greeted with nothing but air again.
He gracefully steps to the side, and before I can catch my bearings, he kicks out his leg, bringing both of mine out from under me.
I land heavily on my back, the breath rushing out of my lungs in a swift exhale.
Gasping for a solid breath and coming up short, I try to roll to the side. It feels as if both lungs are filled with a thousand needles instead of oxygen. I keep trying to get a sliver of breath, begging my lungs to cooperate, but they are currently taking a hiatus.
Kingston crouches down in front of me. “When you strike, do it with resolve and purpose. Don’t lash out blindly.”
I raise my eyes, full of hatred, to glare at him. I can’t respond because that would require being able to breathe, but I put everything I am thinking into my scowl.
“Again,” he orders, rising to his feet.
I push to my knees, the breath slowly returning but not fast enough. I continue to try to gulp the air greedily, making small gasping noises as I do. The sounds of fists meeting flesh echo through the gym, filling the silence as I try to get to my feet.
“Keep that chin tucked. Don’t give them an easy target,” he orders while watching me regain my footing.
I step forward again, throwing another weak punch that doesn’t land.
He grabs my extended arm before I can pull it back and spins me in place. My back crashes against his chest. His smell, woodsy with a hint of something spicy, maybe bergamot, wraps around me. How can he smell so alluring when he’s covered in sweat and assaulting people?
“Always expect the unexpected,” he breathes in my ear. “Your opponent will use any opening to bring you to your knees.”
I’m not short, but I’m not tall either. Averagely average, but being held captive in his arms makes me feel incredibly feminine.
Fragile but not vulnerable.
“Okay, you can let go now.” The words come out flat and controlled.
“Is that what you’ll demand the enemy to do?” he asks, his voice low and mocking.
Both of my arms are pinned in front of me, rendering them useless. Throwing my head back would be ineffective because it would just hit his chest. I know nothing about evasive maneuvers to escape. His strength outmatches mine ten to one.
“Do you yield?” he asks.
“Never,” I bite out.
He lets out a deep chuckle, more threat than actual laugh. “What would you’re beloved Ambrose have you do?” he asks, leaning in close.
The question takes me aback because Ambrose wouldn’t put me in this scenario.
He wouldn’t throw my lack of skill set in my face and demand I acknowledge it.
No, he would teach and guide me. I’d feel safe and capable.
I don’t say any of this, though, because Kingston wouldn’t understand.
He’d just judge and mock me further for my answer.
“He’d probably recommend I get as far away from you as possible,” I snap.
“Then do it,” he says.
I wiggle my wrists, trying to find leverage to slip from his grasp, but it’s not feasible. I kick my feet back, trying to hit a shin or ankle, but when I connect, nothing. He doesn’t budge.
He’s wrapped around me, cutting off any viable solution.
“There aren’t any options. Your size makes it impossible.” I know he won’t hurt me. I don’t know how, but I know it, yet being this helpless brings out a desperation in me. I need to know that I could escape if it came down to it, and it’s shamefully obvious that’s not the case.
“Is that what he would tell you? To just give up?” he demands. There’s an underlying edge to his voice that I haven’t heard before.
“Of course not,” I say, my words coming out breathy and anxious. “He would teach me.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m showing you how to stand on your own without a crutch.”
“I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own!”
“Show me, then. Get out of my grasp,” he orders.
I twist my body sideways, arching my back, trying to break his grip. Pain radiates up my arms as I try to wrench my wrists from his lethal grasp, the violent and urgent need to escape sinking its claws into my skin.
I can feel moisture pooling in my eyes, and I hate it.
“Admit it, Heathen. You can’t.” He abruptly releases me from his grasp, causing me to fall forward.
I catch myself and stand on shaky legs, rubbing my wrists from where his brutal hands gripped them so roughly.
I bet he gets off on his superiority over my helplessness.
“You love that I can’t.” I put all my rage and self-doubt into the glare I direct at him.
“Seeing someone so close to Ambrose fail at your feet is probably the highlight of your day. You hate me on sight just by association!” I yell.
I can feel the tremor in my lip and the tears of frustration building in the corners of my eyes. I hate that when I get mad and overstimulated, I angry-cry.
Kingston just stares at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
It’ll be a cold day in hell before I cry at his feet. I sink my teeth into the sides of my cheeks and relish in the pain.
“Watching a more than capable soldier be weakened by someone who claims to care for her is not my idea of a good time,” he answers coldly.
He turns to walk away, clearly dismissing me.
I guess our little training session is done then.
It’s amazing how quickly he can shut it all off and disregard someone.
I’m even slightly envious of it. I should just let him go.
Give thanks this sparing session is over with, grab my shit, and leave.
But I’m so angry that he thinks he knows me.
That he summed me up and found me lacking.
I’ve also never been good at knowing when to keep my mouth shut.
“If you were half the man Ambrose was, I wouldn’t be staring at a retreating back.”
One second, he’s walking away, his stride composed and calm.
Finished with me. The next, my hair is wrapped around his fist, head tilted to the side, his fangs sunk deep into my neck.
He’s dominance, and I’m submission. He doesn’t remove his jaw but lingers.
Rather in wrath or restraint, I’m unsure.
I can feel his breath hot against my skin.
I squeeze his forearm like a lifeline. Both knees buckle beneath me, but he holds me up with one arm, his fingers digging into my ribs, while the other presses my body into his.
There is no space left, no escape offered.
I have no choice but to surrender to his taking.
I pushed, and he responded. I should be afraid, or at the very least, repulsed, but I’m not any of those things. I’m intrigued. I feel a pulse between my thighs, sharp and shameful in its timing. My body is committing the ultimate act of betrayal, and I have no control over it.
Suddenly, without warning, he releases me.
He tears himself away, fangs slipping free, causing me to flinch. Blood smears his lips and runs down his chin. His eyes are glassy as if in a blood haze. Both pupils are blown wide, drowning out any color other than black. They flick to my neck and then back to me.
Pain flares, white-hot, and I stagger to the side, grabbing the spot his mouth had been. Kingston makes no move to come near me, but his eyes track my every move. I watch in horror and captivation as he wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
He looks dazed. Blood lusting. Ruined.
“Fuck.”
I point an accusing finger at him. “You bit me!”
“It won’t happen again,” he says, each syllable deliberate and methodical.
I pull my hand away and stare at the blood coating my fingers.
The room slightly tilts.
He moved impossibly fast. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I’d heard the rumors of his skill set and how he climbed the ranks quicker than those before him.
To be a major in second-year, you have to be ruthless and superior to your peers, but I’m starting to think he hasn’t even shown us what he’s truly capable of.
He’s an irreplaceable tool in the realm’s fighting force and hasn’t even graduated from Kintoira.
The possibilities of what he will become before he leaves these walls are endless.
Endless and horrifying.
His eyes move to my hand, locked on the remnants of his bite.
They rise back to mine before shuttering, locking down any kind of emotion that might have been swimming in their dark depths.
Turning to leave, he grabs his bag from the floor and walks out, leaving me standing in the center of the mat with blood dripping down my neck, filled with more questions than answers.