CHAPTER 6 - THE TRAINING GROUNDS
If you're going to live around wolves, you need to learn how to bite, Ethan growls, tossing a wooden training dagger at Chloe's feet.
The blunt block of carved ash clatters against the packed dirt floor, kicking up a small cloud of red dust near the tips of my worn-out sneakers.
I don't reach for it immediately. I keep my arms crossed over the oversized sweatshirt they gave me to replace my torn clothes, squinting through the high, reinforced windows of the private subterranean training arena.
The air down here smells of sweat, oiled leather, iron weights, and that permanent, underlying musk of apex predators.
The morning light cuts through the dust motes in sharp, cinematic beams, casting long shadows across the padded floor mats.
I look from the wooden toy on the ground up to Ethan.
He is standing a few paces away, wearing nothing but low-slung black sweatpants and hand wraps that emphasize the thick, coiled muscles of his forearms. The silver-poisoned wound on his shoulder blade from last night has healed into a faint, pink line, thanks to whatever weird Voodoo my human hands accidentally performed on his skin.
His stormy gray eyes are completely clear today, but they track my every movement with a dark, restless focus.
And what exactly am I supposed to bite with this? I ask, my voice echoing slightly off the reinforced concrete walls. Am I supposed to poke a nine-foot-tall wolf until he dies of mild annoyance? Because if that’s the survival plan, I’d rather take my chances with a sternly worded email.
Ethan doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile.
The playful, reckless boy who was drowning his sorrows in cheap whiskey forty-eight hours ago has vanished, replaced by a hyper-focused Alpha heir who realizes exactly how dangerous my presence is to his people.
He walks toward me, his bare feet making no sound against the dirt floor.
Rival packs are already sniffing around our borders, Chloe, Ethan says, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that stirs the hairs on the back of my neck.
The Nightshade pack knows we have a human in the compound.
They don't care about your GPA, and they definitely don't care about your sarcastic comebacks.
If they bypass our scouts, they will use you as a leverage point to bleed me dry.
I'm not teaching you how to win a war. I'm teaching you how to survive the first thirty seconds so I can get to you. Pick up the knife.
I stare at him, the gravity of his words sinking through my sarcastic armor.
He’s right. I saw the council yesterday; I heard them debate my execution like they were choosing a lunch menu.
I am a mouse trapped in a den of lions, and my only defense mechanism is a sharp tongue that won't stop running.
If I want to see my mother again, if I want to escape this mountain, I need to learn how to move in the dark.
I bend down, my fingers wrapping around the smooth, heavy grip of the wooden dagger. It feels clumsy and alien in my hand, entirely too light to do any real damage.
Good, Ethan murmurs, stepping back into a relaxed, loose stance that looks entirely too casual for a man who could snap my neck with two fingers. Now, try to hit me.
Are you serious? I ask, shifting my weight. You outweigh me by at least a hundred pounds of pure muscle, and your reaction time is basically supernatural. Trying to hit you is just an elaborate way to get myself thrown across the room.
Just try, Chloe, he barks, his tone suddenly dropping into an authoritative command that makes my blood spark with an irrational, defensive heat.
I don't think. I just step forward, swinging the wooden blade in a clumsy, horizontal arc aimed at his ribs.
Ethan moves like a shadow. Before my arm can even fully extend, he steps inside my guard, his forearm catching my wrist with a firm, unyielding block.
With a single, effortless twist of his upper body, he redirects my momentum, sending me stumbling forward across the mats until I barely catch my balance.
Too slow, Ethan says, his voice flat, completely devoid of pity. Your feet are too wide, your balance is entirely in your heels, and you're telegraphing your movement three seconds before you even swing. If I were a rogue, your throat would already be torn open. Again.
I turn around, my chest heaving as a hot wave of frustration floods my cheeks.
My glasses are slipping down my nose, and my hair is coming loose from its bun, but the sheer, stubborn refusal to play the weak victim takes over my brain.
I don't say a word. I grip the handle tighter, reset my feet, and lunged forward again, changing the angle toward his shoulder.
He blocks it again, his hand wrapping around my wrist this time, spinning me around until my back is pressed firmly against his chest. He holds me there for a second, his grip white-knuckle tight, his chest heaving against my shoulder blades.
The heat radiating from his skin is instant, a scalding current that makes my skin tingle through the thick cotton of the sweatshirt.
The heavy cedarwood and winter forest scent explodes across my senses, making my head spin.
You're fighting like a human who thinks there are rules, Ethan whispers right against my ear, his deep voice sending a treacherous shiver straight down my spine. There are no rules down here, Chloe. Use everything you have. Bite, kick, scream, scratch. Do whatever it takes to break the hold.
From the dark shadows near the upper observation deck, a throat clears softly.
Marcus is leaning against the iron railing, his arms crossed over his tactical jacket, watching us with a level, unreadable expression in his amber eyes.
He has been there the entire time, a silent sentinel monitoring the training.
I expect him to look at me with that same cold detachment from the council room, but as I look up, I notice his gaze is fixed entirely on Ethan.
Marcus is watching the way Ethan’s fingers are lingering against my wrist, the way his cousin’s volatile, chaotic aura seems to settle into a focused, protective stillness whenever his eyes are locked onto mine.
The reckless, self-destructive edge that Ethan has carried for a year has completely vanished in this room.
He isn't thinking about the bottle, and he isn't thinking about his past rejection; he is entirely consumed by the task of keeping me breathing.
He is getting predictable, Marcus says, his voice carrying clearly down to the floor.
The council is meeting again tonight, Ethan.
They want an update on the spy search. If you spend all your hours down here playing instructor to a human, they will think you're hiding your own incompetence behind a skirt.
I'll handle the council, Marcus, Ethan snaps back, his grip tightening on my arm before he slowly lets go, stepping back to break the contact.
The loss of his body heat leaves a strange, cold void on my skin that I immediately resent.
Focus on the border patrols. The Nightshade pack didn't get those rotation codes by accident.
Marcus looks at me one last time, a shadow of warning crossing his amber eyes, before he turns and disappears into the upper corridors without another word.
I turn back to Ethan, my breathing ragged as I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. Your cousin really knows how to ruin a mood. Is he always this delightful, or does he just save the charm for human captives?
Ethan doesn't answer immediately. He watches me reset my stance, a faint, almost imperceptible gleam of silent respect crossing his stormy eyes as he notices that I haven't dropped the wooden knife. I am completely outmatched, bruised, and exhausted, but I haven't backed down once.
You have a lot of nerve for someone who can be crushed like a twig, Ethan murmurs, his tone losing some of its rigid authority, replaced by that dark, velvety purr that makes my pulse do a dangerous dance. Most humans would be weeping in the corner by now.
Well, weeping doesn't really fit into my schedule, I say, my voice steadying as I lift the wooden blade again, a small, defiant smirk tugging at the corner of my lips.
And besides, if I cry, my glasses get foggy, and then I definitely won't be able to see you coming.
Let's go again, Alpha heir. Try not to go easy on me.
Ethan’s eyes flare a sudden, brilliant gold at the challenge, his inner wolf responding instantly to the fire in my tone. A low, thunderous rumble starts deep in his chest. I don't go easy on anyone, sweetheart.
He moves faster this time, a blur of motion that cuts through the distance between us in a heartbeat. I anticipate the block, dipping my shoulder to slide beneath his extended arm, my wooden blade coming up toward his midsection. For a fraction of a second, I think I actually have him.
But Ethan is already three steps ahead.
He twists his hips, his hand shooting down to catch my forearm while his other leg sweeps behind my ankles. The momentum carries both of us forward. I lose my footing entirely, the wooden knife slipping from my fingers as I fall backward onto the thick, padded training mats.
I hit the floor with a soft thud, the air rushing out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. Before I can even attempt to scramble away, Ethan’s massive weight follows me down, pinning me flat against the mat.
He lands directly over me, his thighs flanking my hips, his broad chest pressing firmly against mine to trap my arms at my sides. He supports his weight on his forearms, his hands splaying against the mat right next to my shoulders, effectively locking me into a cage of bone and iron muscle.
Our bodies are completely flushed together, our chests rising and falling in perfect, frantic tandem as we struggle for air.
The physical proximity is suffocating, raw, and incredibly intimate.
I can feel the hard, defined contours of his torso pressing into my ribs, the sheer heat radiating from his bare skin searing through the fabric of my sweatshirt like an open flame.
For a long, agonizing second, neither of us moves. The anger, the fear, the training—it all melts away into a sudden, consuming wave of pure, heavy sexual tension that makes the air in the arena grow impossibly thick.
Ethan’s face is inches from mine, his black hair falling forward into his eyes, his hot breath fanning across my lips with a ragged, uneven rhythm.
His stormy gray eyes are completely gone now, replaced by two pools of liquid gold that burn down into my hazel ones with a terrifying, primal intensity.
He looks at me not as a captive, not as a mistake, but as a man who has finally found the only thing in the world that matters to him.
My hands are trapped against his chest, my fingers curling instinctively into the bare skin of his shoulders, feeling the rapid, thunderous beat of his heart against my palms. My pulse is racing so fast I can hear it roaring in my own ears, a frantic, desperate rhythm that matches his precisely.
You're too close, I whisper, the words barely finding their way past my throat. My voice lacks any of its usual sharp, sarcastic bite; it's a soft, vulnerable confession that hangs in the quiet space between our lips.
I can't get close enough, Ethan rasps, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural register that vibrates right through my ribs, sending a fierce, forbidden heat straight down to my stomach.
Every inch of my wolf wants to bury his teeth in your neck right now, Chloe.
He doesn't care about the council, he doesn't care about the laws, and he definitely doesn't care that you're human. He just wants his mate.
His gaze drops to my mouth, his head lowering a mere fraction of an inch until I can feel the cool outline of his lips hovering just above mine.
The restraint he is exercising is visible in the hard, trembling line of his jaw, the muscles in his neck straining until the veins bulge against his skin.
The air is heavy with the scent of cedarwood, vanilla, and pure, unadulterated obsession, a dark whirlpool that is threatening to pull both of us under.
I close my eyes, my breath catching as his nose slides slowly along the side of my cheek, his lips brushing against the soft skin of my jaw before lingering just beneath my ear.
A low, trembling sound escapes his throat, a mix of a growl and a plea that sets every nerve ending in my body on fire.
I want him to kiss me. I want him to drop the restraint and let the beast take over, even if it means destroying everything I know.
The wire between our chests is pulling so hard it feels like a physical ache, a bond so ancient and powerful it doesn't care about our differences, our fears, or the danger surrounding us.
We are two opposites spinning in the same chaotic orbit, and for this single, breathless moment, the world outside this room doesn't exist.
Then, the universe shatters.
A sudden, deafening wail tears through the concrete walls of the arena, a high-pitched, electronic siren that cuts through the silence like a jagged blade.
The crimson emergency lights across the ceiling instantly snap on, bathing the entire training grounds in a blood-red, pulsing glow that makes the dust motes look like falling sparks.
Ethan freezes instantly, his gold eyes snapping wide as his head bolts up toward the high windows. The romantic, heavy tension in the room vanishes in a heartbeat, replaced by a cold, lethal surge of pure Alpha adrenaline.
The perimeter, Ethan growls, his voice losing every ounce of its softness as he rolls off me with a fluid, terrifying speed, grabbing his hand wraps from the floor. Someone just breached the southern silver gates.
Before I can even sit up, a heavy, thunderous explosion rocks the entire underground complex, shaking the concrete floor beneath my back and sending a shower of plaster dust falling from the ceiling.
The sirens grow louder, a screaming warning that the war has finally found its way inside the walls.