Chapter 8
Cora POV
I wake to the sharp clash of metal on metal, the sound ringing through the forest like thunder. I know instantly what it means, the men are already at their morning training session. The rhythm of steel against steel is steady, purposeful, a language of its own.
Curiosity pulls me from my resting place, and I walk toward the clearing. The air is cool, carrying the scent of smoke from last night’s fire, mingled with sweat and earth.
When I arrive, my eyes find Garrion. He is sparring with Mika, movements fluid yet powerful, each strike precise.
Garrion is shirtless, his muscles on full display.
His chest rises and falls with exertion; his abs defined like carved stone.
Every shift of his body reveals strength honed by years of discipline.
His back muscles ripple with each motion, flexing as he pivots, parries, and drives forward.
I cannot look away. There is something mesmerizing in the way he moves, controlled violence wrapped in grace.
Mika presses him hard, but Garrion does not falter.
He is relentless, commanding, every strike a reminder of the power he carries.
I stand at the edge of the clearing, hidden in the shadows, my breath caught in my throat. I should turn away, but I don’t. Watching him like this feels dangerous, yet I am rooted to the spot, unable to tear my gaze from him.
I want to see what hides beneath Garrion’s mask. I don’t care about scars, or whatever stories the men whisper about him. I want the truth. I linger at the edge of the clearing, watching him spar, his movements sharp and commanding, until the urge to step closer overwhelms me.
I move into the open. Mika spots me first, his grin wide and welcoming, always eager to stir trouble. “Good morning, My Lady,” he calls out, his voice carrying across the clearing. Garrion turns at the sound, his eyes meeting mine briefly before he gives me a curt nod.
“How would you like to learn how to fight, My Lady?” Mika asks, amusement lacing his tone.
“Not happening” Garrion snaps before I can answer, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
I arch a brow, refusing to let him speak for me. “A very kind offer, Mika, but I know how to defend myself” I fire back, my tone steady, deliberate.
Mika chuckles, shaking his head. “With a bow, yes. From a distance, you’re deadly. But up close? That’s a different story.” His words hang in the air, teasing but edged with truth.
I feel Garrion’s gaze on me, heavy and unyielding, as though he wants to silence the conversation altogether. But I stand my ground, refusing to shrink beneath either man’s judgment.
I want to see how far I can push this. My pulse quickens, but I keep my voice steady, deliberate. “I will make you a deal, Mika. If I manage to land a decent punch on you, you will let this go?”
Mika’s grin widens, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You have a deal, my lady.” He glances toward Garrion, waiting for his approval.
Garrion gives a single nod, sharp and controlled, his eyes never leaving mine. The weight of his gaze presses against me, unreadable, warning, perhaps, or something else entirely.
I lift my chin, refusing to flinch beneath it.
My fingers move to the buttons of my cloak, undoing them one by one.
The heavy fabric slips from my shoulders and falls to the ground.
Beneath it, I stand in my black riding leathers.
They cling to me like a second skin, flexible enough for movement, strong enough to endure.
The air shifts around us. Mika’s grin lingers, but Garrion’s stare feels heavier now, sharper, as though he is measuring me, testing whether I truly mean to follow through.
I square my shoulders, my fists tightening at my sides. This is no longer about amusement. It is about proving myself, proving that I am not fragile, not helpless, not someone to be dismissed.
Garrion POV
As soon as Cora lets her cloak fall, my mind scatters.
The heavy fabric slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, and suddenly she is standing there in tight black leathers that cling to her body like a second skin.
Her figure is… phenomenal. Every line, every curve, revealed in a way that makes my breath catch.
She doesn’t spare me another glance. Her chin is lifted, her focus fixed on Mika, as though I am not even here. But I see her. All of her. And so do my men.
The sparring stops. Steel lowers, laughter fades. Their eyes are on her now, hungry, curious, unashamed. My instincts flare hot and sharp. I want to cover her back up, to shield her from their gaze. That body is not theirs to look at. It is mine. Mine to guard, mine to know.
I clench my fists, forcing myself to stay seated, to keep the mask of command in place. But inside, something primal surges. Possession. Protection. Desire. It coils in my chest, dangerous and undeniable.
She stands there, unafraid, daring, and I realize she has no idea what she does to me.
Before Mika even realizes what’s happening, Cora sprints toward him with startling speed.
She drops low, sliding between his legs in one fluid motion, and is back on her feet before he can turn.
Her boot connects hard with his back, sending him stumbling forward.
The deal was a punch, but she’s already proving she won’t play by anyone’s rules but her own.
Mika pivots with a smirk, unfazed, and lunges for her. She sidesteps with ease, her movements sharp, practiced. She’s clearly been trained to fight; this is no clumsy attempt at defense.
She circles him, light on her feet, her eyes gleaming with challenge.
She’s toying with him, testing his reactions, measuring his strength.
Then she misjudges, her fist swinging wide.
Mika seizes the opening, grabbing her arm and spinning her into a headlock.
His grin widens. “Nice try, my lady” he teases, his voice dripping with amusement.
The sight of his body pressed against hers drives me insane, but she doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Instead, she tilts her head just enough to catch my gaze. A smirk forms on her lips, deliberate, as if she’s already caught him in her trap.
Then she moves. Her head whips back with brutal speed, cracking against Mika’s nose. The sound is sharp, sickening. He curses, releasing her instantly, blood spilling down his face.
Cora doesn’t hesitate. She spins, driving an uppercut into his jaw. Mika staggers back, stunned, and before he can recover, she kicks him square in the chest. The force sends him crashing to the ground, flat on his ass.
The clearing erupts with laughter and shouts from the men, but I can’t join them. My eyes are fixed on her, on the fire in her movements, the confidence in her stance, the smirk that lingers as she stands over Mika. She is dangerous. She is magnificent. And she is mine.
She crouches in front of Mika, her movements calm, deliberate, as though the fight had never happened. “Let me have a look at that nose,” she says gently, her voice soft enough to disarm even the sting of her blows.
Mika sits up straighter, obedient under her touch, while her hands assess the damage she’s caused. Her fingers are careful, almost tender, and the sight of it twists something inside me. The injury she gave him is nothing compared to the damage she is causing within me.
“It’s not broken,” she declares after a moment, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Maybe just your ego.”
The men laugh, Mika chuckles despite the blood on his face. My chest tightens as I watch her rise gracefully to her feet. She bends to retrieve her cloak, pulling it over her shoulders, covering herself once more.
Relief washes through me, sharp and possessive. The leathers that clung to her body are hidden again, shielded from the eyes of my men. That glimpse of her, strong, defiant, breathtaking, was mine alone to hold in memory.
And yet, even as she covers herself, I know the truth: she has already uncovered something in me I cannot put back.
I follow her back to our makeshift camp. My steps are heavy, but my thoughts race. I need to know more.
“Did Bastion teach you to fight like that?” The words leave me sharper than I intend, desperate to understand the source of her skill, the confidence she carries so easily.
“Yes, he did,” she replies, her voice steady, her chin lifted with pride. There is no hesitation, no apology in her tone. She wears the memory of her training like armor, and I can see how much it means to her.
I study her in silence, the way her eyes shine when she speaks about him, the quiet strength in her posture.
My hand twitches at my side, the urge to reach out and touch her almost overwhelming.
To brush my fingers against her arm, to feel the warmth of her skin, to claim some part of the fire she carries.
But I resist. I force the instinct down, bury it deep.
So I stand beside her, silent, watching her tend to the camp as though nothing has shifted between us. And yet inside me, everything has.
“Are you hungry?” I ask her quietly, my voice carrying more weight than the simple question.
My men and I are used to going days without food, hardened by years of campaign and survival.
Hunger is a companion we’ve learned to endure.
But she is not one of us, and I wonder if she can bear it.
Still, by nightfall we will reach the Bellon City, and there will be food for all of us.
“I’m fine,” she replies, her tone calm, almost dismissive, though her eyes flicker with something I cannot quite read. She straightens her cloak, her composure unshaken.
“Are we leaving soon for Bellon City?” she asks, her voice steady, but there’s a subtle edge beneath it, anticipation, perhaps, or unease.
I study her for a moment, the light catching in her hair, the strength in her posture. She does not complain, does not falter, even when the road ahead promises hardship. My men would never admit it aloud, but I can see the respect forming in their eyes.
Bellon City looms in my mind, a place of power and danger, where masks and alliances matter more than steel. I wonder if she knows what awaits her there. I wonder if she is ready.
“Yes. I suggest you get yourself ready to leave,” I respond, my tone clipped, though my eyes linger on her longer than I intend.
She nods without a word, moving with quiet efficiency. She picks up her bag, tying it securely to her horse’s saddle, her movements practiced, unhurried. Then, to my surprise, she reaches beneath my cloak, the very one she slept on and pulls out two daggers hidden there.
My brows lift. “Do you even know how to use those?” I ask, my voice edged with challenge, though curiosity gnaws at me.
She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she spins the blades in her hands with practiced ease, the steel flashing in the morning light. Her movements are fluid, confident, far too skilled to be mere show. Then she lifts one dagger, pointing it directly at me, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Do you want to find out, My Lord?” she says, her tone balanced perfectly between teasing and threat.
I freeze, caught between the possibilities. I don’t know if she is mocking me, daring me, or warning me. Either way, the sight of her standing there, dagger in hand, fire in her eyessends a shiver of excitement down my spine.
She is dangerous. She is unpredictable. And gods help me, I want her all the more for it.