The next entire day was wasted with just one feeling.
Dread.
It was evening.
The night was thick with the scent of sweat and earth, the air thrumming with the raw energy of testosterones as I step towards the training grounds. Vast open area sprawled before me with a sea of shifting shadows beneath the cold moonlight.
Men—bare, gleaming, their bodies slick with exertion—moved in violent unison, grunts and growls blending with the rhythmic crunch of feet against dirt.
And at the center of it all, towering and immovable like a god of war, stood Killain.
“ Again! Faster!”
His voice was a whip, sharp and merciless, lashing through the night. Every command was met with immediate obedience, every syllable dragging submission from those before him.
The men flinched under his gaze, muscles coiling in tense reverence and I was not immune to him.
Gulping, I forced my feet forward, each step heavier than the last. The clock had struck eight. I would not be late.
I could not afford those stup
