CHAPTER 19: THE LUNA'S SECOND LESSON

"Cadet Summers, you're late," I say, pissed that he wasted my time like that. He is 35 minutes late.

Luke linked me when he saw Summers walking around with his friends outside the kitchen. He asked him if he had somewhere to be, and Summers had the audacity to say that he thought my training was a joke.

Summers scowls, his defiance clear in his stance. “I’m only here because Alpha Luke ordered me to listen to you. I’ll admit—you know how to fight, and I respect that. But I don’t know you. You walk in expecting respect just because you’re the Luna. Respect isn’t handed out—it’s earned.”

I tilt my head slightly, my voice steady, unruffled. “Fair enough. Then tell me—why do you expect the pack to respect you?”

He opens his mouth, but I continue before he can interrupt, my tone even but firm. “Is it because you’re training to be a warrior? Does that automatically make you deserving? You demand respect from your packmates, yet you’ve done nothing to earn it. In fact, the way you speak about the women here warrants the opposite.”

His jaw tightens, anger flashing in his eyes. Good. Sometimes the truth stings.

I don’t raise my voice, but my words cut sharp. “So why should I respect you when you show me none? I overheard you this morning—you respect the Alphas because they’ve proven themselves. They’ve bled for this pack. And yet, when I found and rescued those pups—something none of you managed in five months—I’d hoped that might be enough to at least earn punctuality. Yet here we are.”

His gaze drops, defiance giving way to shame. I exhale slowly, releasing the tension in my shoulders. Anger won’t serve me here.

“No matter,” I say, my voice softer now. “The past is done. Let’s move forward.” Extending an olive branch, I meet his eyes. “I’m always eager to learn new techniques. So here’s my offer: I’ll train you in my style this week. After that, you teach me yours. A fair exchange—mutual growth, mutual respect. Maybe, in time, trust.” I extend my hand. “Do we have a deal?”

He hesitates, considering, then grips my hand with a firm nod. “Deal.”

"Okay, each session we will start with a 1-hour warm-up, which is running laps at a 6-minute pace," I say, as I hear a moan from Summers.

“Listen, I get it—this isn’t fun. But when you’re out there fighting for days straight, you’ll be grateful for these warm-ups. They build endurance, and that’s what’ll keep you alive when others drop. I’ve studied the pack’s battle records. Some lasted three days, others two weeks. There was even one that dragged on for seven months. Fighting isn’t just skill and technique. You could be the best, but if you wear out in two hours, you’re dead. History doesn’t lie.”

That’s all—facts, nothing more. He tries to act indifferent, but I’ve always been sharp at reading people. Better than most.

"I guess let's get this over with," replied Summers with a sigh.

To which I reply with a smile, "That's the spirit."

Summers is not impressed with my sarcasm.

Not even 10 minutes into our warm-up, and Summers now has an empty stomach. To say that makes me happy is the understatement of the year. I am ecstatic and really enjoying this.

We run about 6 miles when the timer runs out. We are going to have to improve that.

"Okay, let's stretch. Then we will start with hand-to-hand techniques." Summers nods his head and stretches with me.

"Okay, first things first, I want you to throw a punch like you did when we first started sparring," I say, then demonstrate pulling my arm back to where my fist is right beside my shoulder and punching forward, locking my elbow. He repeats the movement.

"Okay, now do that 30 times in a row, no stopping," I say, and he looks confused but does it.

He starts counting, "One, two, three..." all the way to 30. He shakes out his arms.

"How do your arms feel?" I ask.

"Fine," he says.

I punch him in the stomach and, with a stern voice, I say, "Lie to me again, and I will punch harder each time. Lying to me does not help you and is a waste of my time. So, I will ask again, how do your arms feel?"

"A little tired," he answers honestly. He is not the brightest crayon in the box. I knock his feet out from under him, and he hits the ground hard.

I repeat, "A little tired, ma'am," I emphasize using "ma'am."

"A little tired, ma'am," he replies as he gets up, dusting himself off.

"Okay, I am going to demonstrate a different punch technique, and again, I want you to mimic the movement until you get the technique correct. Then you will repeat the action 30 times." This time, I keep my arms up in a block position, then I punch straight forward, locking my elbow while leaning forward, then returning back to my starting position. I do not do any backward movement.

Once Summers is ready, he mimics my movements, and we make some minor adjustments, and he does a set of 30 correctly.

After he is done, I ask again, "How do your arms feel this time compared to the last set?"

"They are not as tired, and it felt quicker," he says with a bit of surprise. Then quickly adds, "Ma'am."

"Good, now go put on some hand pads. I want to demonstrate something." Summers looks confused, but does as I say.

"Okay, now what-" I cut Summers off by punching the pad three times with Summers' technique, then three times with my technique.

"I put the same amount of force behind both punches. Which one felt stronger?" I ask as he is shaking out his hands.

"Your technique, ma'am," he says while shaking out his hands.

"Okay, since my technique hits harder and requires less effort, I would like you to use that technique for the rest of the week. After that, I will let you decide which technique you want to use," I say. "Now, let's spar."

For the next 2 hours, we spar, and periodically we stop to correct his stance for better balance.

"You need to make sure to keep your feet apart. Work on stepping forward with your leading foot as you punch forward. Then, as you bring your arm back, step forward with your trailing foot. This makes sure you are always moving forward. You are stronger when you move forward than backward. It will also put them at a disadvantage and cause them to stumble and lose balance," I explain, and we work on that for a while.

I hit him in certain areas, then instruct him to counteract or block it. He gets hit a lot. I then put him in some holds and taught him how to get out of them. A couple of times, I take him to the ground, and he fights like a toddler each time.

Yeah, that's going to change really quickly.

"Okay, your ground fighting absolutely sucks, so we are going to work on that tomorrow," I say, earning me a groan, and I smile. It's the little things that make me happy.

He has a lot to learn, but he is a great student. He listens to my feedback and tries to do better each time. Granted, I think the pain of messing up is his motivator to do better. You can still see what move he is going to make, but he is much better than before. We will see after dinner if he reverts back to his old ways.

After another hour of training, I end our training session and say, "Meet me back here just after dark for your evening training," I say before dismissing him. He collapses on the ground and stays there as I walk away.