The sun hangs low in the sky, painting the horizon in hues of orange and pink as it prepares to give way to the encroaching night. In a clearing surrounded by towering trees, their leaves rustling in the strong gusts of wind, Nickolas and I face each other, both poised for combat.
I pant hard, my chest heaving with each labored breath. Strands of hair, having escaped the confines of my bun, cling to my sweat-drenched face while others dance wildly in the wind. I swing on my feet, hands raised and fisted, as if ready to strike. And I want to, I desperately want to land a punch on Nickolas, but I know he would see it coming a mile away and easily block it.
I push saliva down my raw throat, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. We have been training for hours now, and the toll on my body is evident. My muscles ache, and exhaustion threatens to overtake me at any moment. We’ve been training for hours now, and it’s been absolute hell. Nickolas is the worst trainer on this Earth, I’m convinced.
“Unmask and attack me again,” he commands, his voice steady and unwavering. I stare at him for a moment, marveling at how he isn’t nearly as winded as I am. His breath is even, and only the faintest sheen of sweat glistens on his skin while I feel like I’m doing all the work, and he’s just standing there, cool and collected.
“Amelia,” he calls sharply, jolting me from my thoughts. I quickly do as he asks, feeling the changes ripple through my body. My tongue darts out, grazing the sharp points of my elongated canines. I meet Nickolas’s gaze, my eyes now glowing crimson.
“Protect yourself,” he yells just before launching a punch directly at my face.
Instinctively, I lift my arm to block, a small thrill of victory surging through me as I deflect the blow. But the triumph is short-lived. In the next instant, Nickolas’s other fist connects with my gut, knocking the wind out of me and sending me stumbling backward.
“I told you, even a second is enough to kill you,” he growls, using his lycan speed to get behind me, locking me in a chokehold.
I quickly lift my hands to his arm and try to pull it away as his hot breath fans my neck. , sending shivers down my spine despite the adrenaline pumping through my veins. “One second, Amelia, and you’re gone,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he traces a claw along my throat, applying just enough pressure to make his point without breaking skin. I feel my breath coming out in short pants, my body hyper-aware of his closeness.
“Do you understand?” He spins me around to face him, his face just inches from mine as he yells. I blink, my mind going blank as I stare at his heaving chest glittering with sweat. I try to keep my hormones in check, but it’s nearly impossible with him this close.
“Again,” he commands huskily., stepping back and putting some distance between us.
I shake out my limbs, slapping my cheeks to refocus. I can do this. I can train with Nickolas without letting my mind wander to how it would feel to be wrapped in those strong arms of his, held tight against that firm chest… No. I forcefully shut down that train of thought. I need to concentrate, to prove to him and to myself that I can be strong, that I can fight. With a deep breath, I settle into a defensive stance, ready to face whatever he throws at me next.
“Attack me this time.” Nickolas’s commands.
“Okay,” I breathe, the word barely a whisper. I surge forward, putting all my strength behind a punch aimed at his jaw. He dodges with infuriating ease, his head tilting just out of reach. Undeterred, I swing again, my fist cutting through empty air as he catches my wrist in an iron grip.
Before I can blink, he yanks me forward, using my own momentum against me. The world tilts and blurs, and then my back slams into the ground, forcing the air from my lungs in a startled gasp. Nickolas moves to pin me, but I’m ready for him. I hook my foot around his ankle and twist, sending him sprawling.
In a heartbeat, I’m on him, straddling his hips, my hands splayed across the broad expanse of his chest. I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, the frantic pounding of his heart beneath my palm. “I think you can say I won this round,” I pant, giddy with triumph and something else, something that coils hot and tight in my belly.
“I don’t think so.” Nickolas’s eyes flash, and then he’s moving, a blur of speed and strength.
The world spins dizzyingly, and suddenly, I find myself on my back, Nickolas’s commanding presence looming over me. His weight presses deliciously against me, sending a jolt of anticipation coursing through my veins. My fingers instinctively clutch at his shirt, seeking stability amidst the sudden movement, while his sweat beads dripped onto my cheeks and lips, leaving a salty taste lingering in my mouth. His gaze, hot and hungry, sweeps over me, drinking in every detail with vigorous intensity. My chest rises and falls rapidly, the arch of my throat exposed as I swallow hard, feeling the heat of desire burning deep within his eyes mirrored in my own.
A smile tugs at my lips, unable to contain the rush of excitement that floods my senses. I’m not alone in this; not the only one consumed by the fire sparking between us. And with that knowledge, a mischievous spark ignites within me, a desire to ruffle Nickolas’s composure even further.
My fingers tremble slightly as I loosen my grip on Nickolas’s shirt, the fabric slipping from my grasp. Slowly, tentatively, I trail my fingertips down the hard planes of his chest, feeling the heat of his skin even through the thin barrier of cotton. His muscles tense and flex beneath my touch, and I can’t resist the urge to explore further, to map out the ridges and valleys of his abs.
Nickolas sucks in a sharp breath, the sound hissing through his teeth. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with desire, and the sight sends a thrill of power and wanting shuddering through me. Emboldened, I let my hand drift lower past the waistband of his pants. My claws extend, the tips grazing lightly over the sensitive skin just above his groin.
I hold his gaze as my hand hovers there, a silent question and a brazen invitation. Nickolas’s fingers tighten on my waist, digging into the soft flesh, and he gives me a warning look. But there’s no real heat behind it, no true demand to stop. If anything, the hunger in his eyes only intensifies, a silent plea for more.
Permission granted, I slip my hand into his pants, my fingers curling around the hard length of him. He’s hot and heavy in my palm, the skin like silk over steel. Nickolas’s eyes slam shut, and he sucks in a ragged breath, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. I tighten my grip, reveling in the way he pulses and twitches against my hand.
“Amelia,” he growls my name, a rumble of warning and want on his tongue. When they open, his eyes are nearly black with desire, and the green of his irises is a thin ring around blown pupils.
“Yes, Nickolas?” I breathe, stroking him slowly, teasingly. I want to watch him unravel, want to feel him come undone beneath my touch.
But before I can do more than give him a single, firm pump, Nickolas is grabbing my wrist and yanking my hand out of his pants. He’s off me in a flash, on his feet, and turning away to adjust his dick in his pants to avoid it, showing how hard he is and standing with his back facing me.
I lay there on the ground, stunned and bereft, my hand still tingling with the feel of him. Confusion swirls through me, chased by the bitter sting of rejection. Did I do something wrong? Misread the signals?
“Nickolas,” I call softly, pushing myself up to stand on shaky legs.
“It’s ‘Your Majesty’ to you,” he snaps, the words a harsh bark that makes me flinch. Hurt and embarrassment flood through me, hot and sharp. I open my mouth, a question forming on my lips, but I’m cut off by the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Your Majesty.” Lord Easterlin’s voice rings out across the field as he draws near, bowing deeply before Nickolas. But as he straightens, his eyes catch mine, widening in shock.
My brows furrow, puzzled by the sudden widening of his eyes. I rack my brain, trying to discern what on my face could have elicited such a reaction from him, and then it hits me. My scent, my eyes… I hadn’t masked them. Quickly, I turn away, hiding my face as I mask my scent. But it’s too late. He saw, he knows. The question is, what will he do with that knowledge?