Chapter 7
“Again,” Rykan ordered, the command as automatic as breathing, and Ember dragged herself back into the starting stance for the twelfth time.
She was trembling. She’d been trembling for the last six repetitions, her slender legs visibly shaking beneath the oversized trousers he’d given her. Her breath came in ragged white puffs that spoke of muscles pushed past their comfort and into the territory of genuine strain.
Part of him wanted to go to her, to pick her up and carry her into his cabin and promise that he would protect her. The other part of him waited for the complaint. The excuse. The moment she’d finally admit this had been a mistake and retreat to the warmth of the cabin.
“Feet wider.” Her voice came out thin but steady. “Like this?”
She adjusted her stance without being told, widening her base the way he’d shown her. Her balance improved immediately—still terrible by Vultor standards, but less likely to send her sprawling at the first gust of wind.
“Better.”
She didn’t preen at the approval. Just nodded once and held the position, waiting for whatever torture he’d devise next.
Stubborn, his beast noted approvingly. Strong.
He ignored it, just as he’d been ignoring it ever since she’d woken in his arms and smiled at him instead of screaming.
His beast had been prowling beneath his skin continuously, determined to claim this small human who’d crashed into his territory.
Instead, he’d forced himself to stay away, to let her struggle when every protective instinct he had screamed for him to come to her rescue.
He was now convinced that her helplessness wasn’t an act or a scheme to trap him, but he’d promised to help her grow stronger and he wouldn’t go back on his word.
“Arms up. Hands open, fingers together.” He demonstrated the guard position, a basic defensive stance that even Vultor children could hold for hours. “Keep your elbows close to your ribs.”
She tried to mimic the position, but it was completely wrong. Her arms were too high, her elbows too extended, and her fingers were splayed instead of pressed together.
He should have corrected her verbally. That’s what a proper instructor would do—stand at a distance and bark orders, maintaining the separation between teacher and student. Instead, he found himself moving behind her.
“Here.” His hands closed over her elbows, adjusting them downward. The thin fabric of her borrowed clothing did nothing to mask the warmth of her skin beneath. “Tight to your body. You’re protecting your center, not framing your face.”
She stiffened at his touch—not pulling away, just… noticing. He could hear her heartbeat quicken and smell the subtle shift in her scent that spoke of awareness. He should step back. He knew he should step back.
Instead his hands slid down her arms to her wrists, adjusting the angle of her hands. “Fingers together. A spread hand is a broken hand.”
“I understand.” Her voice came out slightly breathless, and his beast purred.
He forced himself to release her and move away, putting three paces between them, despite the immediate feeling of loss. “Hold that position. Don’t move.”
She held it. The trembling intensified because her body was soft and untrained, her muscles not built for sustained strain. But she held it, jaw set, eyes fixed on the middle distance with a focus that bordered on ferocious.
Minutes passed. Two, then five, then eight. The snow continued to fall around them in lazy spirals, dusting her blonde hair with white, catching on her eyelashes. She blinked the flakes away but didn’t move.
Nine minutes. Ten.
Her arms finally began to drop, her muscles finally giving out despite her determination. She caught herself before they fell completely, dragging them back up through sheer force of will, but he could see them wobbling.
“Enough.”
She exhaled sharply and let her arms fall. “How long?”
“Ten minutes. Warriors hold that position for an hour without rest.”
“I’ll get there.”
Not will I get there? or how long before I can do that? Just a flat statement of fact. She would get there. Because she’d decided to, and apparently her decisions were immutable.
It shouldn’t have been attractive. She was human, fragile and completely unsuited to the warrior path she’d demanded. He should have seen her determination as foolishness—the stubbornness of someone too naive to recognize their own limitations.
Instead, he found himself watching the rise and fall of her chest as she caught her breath, tracking a droplet of melted snow as it slid down her temple and disappeared between her shirt into the valley between her breasts.
Mate, the beast whispered, but he quickly shoved the thought away.
The afternoon drills were worse.
He led her through the basic footwork patterns—simple movements designed to teach balance and control before more complex techniques were introduced. Step forward, step back. Shift weight, hold position. Turn, maintain center, don’t let the motion carry you past your point of balance.
She fell seven times in the first hour.
Each time, she pushed herself up and started again without being asked. Snow clung to her clothing, her hair, her face. Her cheeks had gone red with cold and exertion, her lips chapped from the wind. She looked miserable and exhausted and absolutely radiant with determination.
Stop looking at her.
He forced his gaze away, studying the tree line instead.
There hadn’t been any major storms since she arrived but the temperature had remained below freezing and the pass would remain blocked for days yet.
Days of sharing the cabin with her. Days of training her.
Days of standing close enough to touch while his beast clawed at its restraints.
“Is this right?”
He turned back to find her frozen in mid-step, her weight balanced awkwardly between her front and back foot.
It wasn’t right—nothing about her form was right—but she’d managed to stop the pattern at the exact moment of transition he’d demonstrated, showing that she’d been paying attention to the details rather than just mimicking his movements.
“Your back heel should be off the ground. You’re flat-footed.”
She adjusted, lifting her heel. Her calf muscle flexed beneath the loose fabric of her trousers, defined despite her general lack of strength. She’d have good form eventually, he realized. Once she built the muscle to support it.
“Better.” He found himself moving closer again, pulled by an instinct he didn’t want to examine. “When you shift forward, lead with your hip, not your foot. The power comes from here.”
He placed his hand on her hip to demonstrate, intending only to guide the motion.
Her breath caught.
The sound was quiet, barely audible even to his enhanced hearing, but it shot through him like lightning.
His palm registered the curve of her body beneath her clothing, the warmth of her skin bleeding through the layers of fabric.
His fingers curled slightly, almost involuntarily, pressing against the jut of bone at the top of her thigh.
She didn’t pull away.
His beast surged forward, flooding his senses with her scent—that maddening combination of sweetness and warmth that had been tormenting him since the moment he’d pulled her from the pod.
His body reacted without his permission, his blood heating and flowing south as he imagined her arching into his touch as she gasped that same breathless sound…
Move away, some rational part of his brain screamed.
But he couldn’t.
“Like this?” Her voice came out breathless as well, low and husky.
He cleared his throat, forced himself to remember he was supposed to be teaching her, not… whatever he was doing. “Yes. But keep your core tight. Don’t lean. The movement should be controlled, not falling into position.”
Her body tensed beneath his hand as she tried to follow his instructions. He could feel the effort she was making, the concentration in the set of her shoulders.
“Relax your shoulders,” he said, his own shoulders tight. “Tension locks your movement.”
“Easier said than done.” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “You’re touching me. My body seems to think it should do something about that.”
The honesty of her statement—so different from Lysara’s manipulative games—knocked him off balance. He dropped his hand as if he’d been burned and stepped back, putting a safe distance between them.
“Finish the pattern,” he said roughly.
Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, but he couldn’t read her expression.
“You—” His voice came out gravelly with suppressed desire. “You understand the movement. Practice it.”
He turned and walked away before he could do something stupid. Something they’d both regret.
He spent the rest of the afternoon demonstrating from a distance, keeping three meters between them at all times.
He focused on technique, on form, on the mechanics of movement, and refused to acknowledge the way her eyes kept finding his, or the way he could feel her awareness of him across the small clearing like a physical touch.
By the end of the day, she could execute three of the five basic patterns without falling. Not perfectly—her movements were jerky, her balance precarious—but she could do them.
“We’ll stop here,” he said when she stumbled for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“I can keep going,” she insisted, though she was breathing hard and her limbs were trembling with exhaustion.
“We’ll continue tomorrow,” he added, moderating his tone with effort. “Your muscles need rest. Pushing too hard will cause injury.”
“I thought warriors pushed through pain.”
“Warriors build to that point. They don’t start there and shatter themselves.”
She studied him for a moment, those clear grey eyes seeing too much. Then she nodded and turned towards the cabin, her movements stiff with exhaustion. He watched her go.
Mate, his beast insisted again, louder now, more insistent. Ours.