He held my wrist for a moment longer, his eyes searching mine, then he released me. I cradled my throbbing wrist, glaring up at him.“Better,” he said, though there was no warmth in his tone. “But ‘please’ won’t save you in a real fight. Get up. Again.”The next hour was a blur of pain, frustration, and humiliation. Every attack I made, he countered easily, effortlessly. He’d block a punch and use my momentum to throw me to the ground. He’d dodge a kick and sweep my legs out from under me. Each fall, each painful twist of a limb, was accompanied by his cold, cutting critiques.“You’re relying on brute strength, Freckles. What little you have. A fight is a dance, a chess game. You need to think, anticipate, control.”He wasn’t just fighting me; he was dissecting me, taking me apart piece by piece. And the physical proximity..it was suffocating. When he’d demonstrate a hold, his body would press against mine, his scent , that intoxicating mix of pine, woodsy , filling my senses. His h
Last Updated : 2025-05-14 Read more