fifteen -Brynn- #2
One. My arms tremble slightly.
Two. The wound in my leg throbs.
Three. Sweat beads on my forehead.
"What exactly do you think you're proving?" Ares asks, walking next to me like a predator considering whether its prey is even worth the effort of the kill.
I don't answer, focusing instead on controlling my breathing.
Four. Five. My injured leg protests each time I shift my weight.
Six. Seven. My form is deteriorating, strength weakening, but I refuse to stop.
"Enough," Ares says, his foot suddenly pressing down between my shoulder blades, not hard enough to hurt, but with sufficient force to pin me to the floor. "This isn't training. This is self-destruction."
I twist out from under his foot, rolling to my back and immediately regretting the movement as pain shoots through my thigh. Still, I push myself up to sitting, then force my body into a stretch, reaching for my toes while the pain in my leg makes me hiss through clenched teeth.
"Stubborn woman," Ares mutters, watching me with a mixture of exasperation and something that might just be admiration.
"You'll ruin your leg, and then you'll be useless for weeks instead of days.
" Ares’s hand closes around my upper arm with enough force to stop my movement, but not enough to bruise—yet. "That's enough."
I try to jerk away, but his grip is unyielding. "Let go of me."
"Not until you stop this fucking craziness." His face is inches from mine, his warm breath falling against my cheek. "You want to train? Okay. But we do it my way. For as long as I say. While taking your fucking injury into consideration, as I told you before."
His grip on my arm loosens, his thumb stroking the skin there on instinct.
“We'll start today. But light training only. Nothing that sends you to the hospital because of that leg.” A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, something close to appreciation. "You really are the most stubborn creature I've ever known."
Coming from him, it sounds almost like a compliment. I don't return his smile, but I do nod in agreement. "Where do we train?"
"I have a place," he says, going to his dressing room and pulling out training clothes. He tosses a set to me. Black leggings and a fitted tank top that I’m surprised he got for me, but I think he knew this day would come sooner or later.
"Get dressed. And try not to make that leg of yours completely useless in the meantime."
I catch the clothes against my chest, relieved that some kind of truce was established, but I have a feeling Ares always loves a good battle.
As soon as we’re dressed, Ares gets behind the wheel and takes us to a whole different part of the town. No lavish gardens here or luxurious houses, more like an abandoned part of the city.
He parks the car in front of what used to be a brick mansion. Now it just looks like something that’s falling apart. He then gestures for me to follow him inside.
As I walk behind him, the whole building looks like it was abandoned mid-apocalypse. Cracked concrete stretches between high walls covered in graffiti, their original color giving in to the urban decay.
In the backyard, some rusted metal gates hang partially off their hinges, creaking in the morning breeze like a fucking soundtrack to a horror film. I don’t like horror movies.
But I can tell Ares is just returning to familiar territory.
"Charming place," I mutter, scanning our surroundings. Old punching bags hang from metal frames as if someone left them here to die, swaying in the cold morning air, the sound of chains replacing the one of singing birds.
Different weapons, knives, batons, and what appears to be a medieval flail are mounted on the courtyard wall, arranged so carefully that it contradicts the chaos of the space.
"This is where my men train," Ares says, taking off his jacket to reveal a fitted black t-shirt that clings to the well-defined contours of his chest and arms.
I suddenly realize this will be a lot harder than I anticipated. Because right now, he looks carved from marble, perfect, deadly… mine.
My body may respond to him like an addict to their drug, but we are here for a different reason. I need to take the edge off, and not in the way I’ve been doing it for the last few days.
"What's first on the torture list?"
His lips curl in amusement. "Basic stances. Your foundation is solid, but you favor your right side too heavily—even before the injury. It makes you predictable."
I bite back a retort. He's not wrong, and I didn't come here to argue technique—especially with him. I came to get stronger, to prepare for whatever is coming. If that means swallowing my pride and learning from the enemy I was supposed to kill, so be it.
"Show me," I say, planting my feet on the cracked concrete and ignoring the way my mind runs to a whole different place when I see him like this. The warrior god right in front of me, his long braids following his every move like a fucking trailer to the next cinema blockbuster.
He takes a few steps toward me, positioning himself beside me, showing me a fighting stance that distributes weight more evenly.
I try to mirror him, but my injured leg trembles with the effort, refusing to take its share of the burden.
I wobble, catching myself before I fall as frustration burns in my chest.
"Again," Ares commands, leaving no room for argument.
I reset, focusing on my balance, willing my wounded leg to cooperate.
For a moment, I hold the position, an insignificant victory that vanishes when Ares circles behind me and places his hands on my hips to adjust my stance.
My body feels like it’s on fire beneath his fingers, like the damn thing would melt right into him. But I can’t have that.
"Don't touch me," I snap, jerking away from his grip.
His eyes narrow. "This isn't a seduction, Brynn. It's training. If you can't separate the two, then we're wasting our time."
Heat floods my face, and I hope I’m not blushing. Or at least that he doesn’t see me blushing. "I'm perfectly capable of separating them. You're the one who seems to confuse torture and pleasure." The words escape me before I can stop them, spiked with a drop of resentment from yesterday.
"Ah," he says, understanding dawning on his face. "You're still upset about crawling."
"I'm not upset," I lie. "I just don't appreciate being treated like a performing circus animal."
He steps closer, his warm breath forming vapors in the cold air. "You seemed to enjoy your performance well enough by the end."
My hand moves before my brain can intervene, aiming a slap at his face. He catches it way too easily, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a manacle. "There it is," he says softly. "The fire I was looking for."
I try to pull away, but his grip is too tight for me to fight it. "Let go."
"Make me," he challenges, releasing my wrist and stepping back into a fighting stance. "Show me what you can do with all that anger, my little curse."
I know he's baiting me. I know this is exactly what he wants. He wants me to lose control, to act on emotion and fuck things up. But knowing still doesn't stop the rage that surges through me. I lunge at him, my fist aiming for his face to wipe that smug smile off his face.