Chapter 16 – Pinned

Alexei

The impact of the tackle is glorious.

It’s the sound of polished form breaking against raw power. Kieran is all air and speed until he meets something solid, and I am very, very solid.

We hit the packed earth in a cloud of dust and a tangle of limbs, my shoulder driving into his ribs, his breath exploding from his lungs in a sharp, surprised oof.

His head smacks the ground. Not hard enough to do real damage, but hard enough to daze him for the half-second I need. Before he can even process the fall, I’m on him, using my superior weight and strength to full advantage.

He’s a cornered animal, struggling desperately to escape the cage of my body. He tries to use his speed, to twist his hips and hook a leg, to use my momentum against me. It’s a good, technical attempt. He really does fight like a dancer, all precision and leverage.

But I’m not a dancer. I’m a brawler.

I let him twist, then just... settle. I drop my center of gravity, planting my knees on either side of his narrow hips, letting my full weight pin him to the dirt.

I catch his flailing wrists, his skin hot and slick with sweat, and slam them into the ground above his head. He struggles, a surge of pure, defiant Alpha energy, but it’s useless. I have him.

I very much enjoy straddling his hips, holding his wrists locked in my fists, my forearm settling across the elegant line of his throat. He’s trapped. Completely and utterly overpowered.

The entire training yard has gone dead silent. The only sounds are our ragged breathing and the frantic, rabbit-fast pulse I can feel hammering in Kieran’s wrists.

He stares up at me, his face a beautiful, furious mask of humiliation. His sharp cheekbones even more prominent from the way he’s clenching his jaw.

His chest heaves under mine, ribs surely aching from where my shoulder connected. Sweat drips from his temples into his perfect, ink-black hair, and the flush I saw creeping up his neck has now claimed his entire face, right up to the tips of his delicate ears. It’s glorious.

His strong, lean muscles tremble with the effort of trying to throw me off, but he can’t. I’m heavier, more powerful, and I have the advantage of leverage.

I lean down, letting my sweat drip onto his face. “You're fast, pretty prince,” I pant, my own breath coming hard. I let him feel my breath ghost across his lips. “You fight like you're desperate to prove something.”

He glares at me in silent, murderous fury. He tries to buck me off again with a surge of power that I easily absorb, just riding the motion and settling my weight back down.

“Yield,” I command, my voice a low, rough purr.

I want to hear him say it. I want to hear that polished, controlled voice of his, the one he uses to cut opponents to ribbons with words, finally admit defeat. I want to hear him admit that I’ve gotten the upper hand.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump. He looks agonized. Like he’d rather die than say the word.

He opens his eyes, and the fury is still there, but it’s swimming with something else. That raw, agonizing vulnerability I saw in the armory. The look of a man who’s been wounded in a place no one else can see.

And then I feel it.

At first, I think I’m imagining it. But as he struggles again, his hips bucking uselessly beneath me, there’s no mistaking it. The rigid line of his cock, hot and hard, pressing with frantic, undeniable life against my stomach through the leather and linen between us.

My brain short-circuits. I stop pushing. I just hold him there, frozen, processing this new, impossible, blazing piece of information.

He’s not just humiliated because he lost a spar. He’s humiliated because his body is reacting to me on a real, raw, visceral level. He's furious at himself for the hot, unwelcome coil of arousal that’s evident between us. He's pinned by an enemy Alpha, in front of his entire pack, and he’s hard.

Holy. Shit.

My gaze drops from his eyes to his mouth, then to the pulse hammering in his throat, right under my forearm. His lips are parted, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His pupils are blown wide, the blue almost entirely consumed by black. He’s not just angry. He’s terrified. And he’s aroused.

That’s the moment I know I’ve won.

Not the spar. I don't give a shit about the spar. I’ve won this. I’ve cracked the polished, princely facade and found the real, terrified, hot-blooded man underneath.

The one who flinched in the armory because he was scared of his reaction to me. The one who’s afraid of being touched, afraid of being rejected, and, as it turns out, incredibly hot for being overpowered.

This is infinitely better than hearing him say one stupid word. I’m clearly going to be the top in our relationship.

The game is still on, but the prize just changed. I don't want his surrender. I want his everything. I want to peel back every layer of that polished, courtly armor and get to the man beneath it all. The one who wants this. The one who wants me.

A slow, predatory heat uncoils in my gut, sharper and more potent than simple lust. I find this vulnerability, this raw, guarded heart of his, completely irresistible.

I loosen my grip on his wrists just a fraction, letting him feel the change. I shift my weight by a mere inch, letting our hips brush. A full-body tremor shivers through him, and a small, choked sound escapes his throat.

I lean in, close enough for my lips to brush the shell of his ear. He shivers again, violently.

“Or don’t,” I whisper, the words a rough, intimate caress against his skin. “I rather like you squirming beneath me. We’ll have to do this again soon. Preferably without an audience next time.”

I push off him in one fluid motion, standing up and deliberately towering over him. He’s left panting up at me, his face a mask of stunned, furious disbelief.

I offer him my hand, which he promptly ignores, scrambling to his feet on his own, brushing dirt from his fine tunic with jerky, angry movements. He won’t meet my eyes. He can’t. He knows that I know.

I let my grin soften, just a fraction. I’ve pushed him as far as he can go for one day. Now, I pull back, offering the illusion of sportsmanship.

“Good fight, Alpha. With a bit more training you’ll be formidable.”

I turn and walk away, leaving him trembling in the center of the ring.