"Your stance is wrong."
Damien's voice filled the training room. Cora adjusted her feet on the mat, jaw tight.
"It feels fine."
"It's not."
He moved behind her. The heat of him reached her before his hands did, one gripping her hip, the other pressing flat against her stomach.
"Here." His breath was warm against her ear. "Your center is off. You're leaning forward."
His hand on her hip pulled her back. Her spine met his chest. Solid and warm .
"Better," he murmured.
He didn't let go.
Cora's pulse quickened. Every point of contact burned — his fingers splayed across her abdomen, his palm searing through the thin fabric of her training clothes. His thumb traced a slow circle against her hip bone.
"Are you teaching me to fight," she managed, "or just holding me?"
His laugh was low, a rumble she felt in her bones.
"Maybe both."
He released her and Stepped back.
"Again. Show me the stance."
Cora positioned herself. Feet apart. Knees bent. Weight centered.
Damien circled her slowly. His eyes tracked every line of her body.
"Now hit me."
"What?"
"You've learned the forms. Time to use them." That dangerous smile curved his lips. "I'll let you land the first one free."
She swung.
He caught her fist an inch from his face. His fingers engulfed her hand completely.
"Too slow. You telegraphed it."
"Then teach me."
"I intend to."
He yanked her forward by the captured fist. She stumbled into him, her free hand catching against his chest.
They were nose to nose. His eyes flickered silver at the edges.
"Lesson one," he said quietly. "Never let your opponent control your movement ."
The next hour left her breathless.
Damien came at her relentlessly. Not full force ,he was holding back but enough to push her. Enough to make her sweat and strain and curse.
Every time she fell, he pulled her up. Every time she failed, he corrected her. His hands were everywhere — adjusting her elbow, gripping her thigh to show her how to pivot, pressing against her lower back to fix her posture.
It was maddening.
Every touch sent electricity through her veins. The mate bond pulsed with each brush of his fingers. She was hyperaware of him — his scent, his heat, the way his muscles moved.
He knew. She could see the satisfaction in his eyes when she shivered. The slight curve of his lips when her breath caught.
Bastard.
"Focus," he said, sweeping her legs.
She hit the mat hard. Before she could recover, he was on her, knee between her thighs, hands pinning her wrists above her head.
"Dead," he said calmly. "Again."
Cora glared up at him. Her chest heaved.
"You're cheating."
"There's no cheating in a real fight."
"This isn't a real fight."
"No?" He leaned closer. His nose brushed hers. "Then why is your heart racing?"
"You know why," she said.
"Yes. I do."
He didn't move. Didn't release her wrists. Just stayed suspended above her, close enough to count his eyelashes.
"This is supposed to be training," she whispered.
"It is."
"Damien—"
He kissed her.
his grip on her wrists tightening as his body pressed her into the mat. She gasped against his lips and he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding against hers.
Heat flooded through her. She arched into him, her hips rising, and he groaned into her mouth.
His hand released her wrist, sliding down her arm, her side, gripping her hip hard.
"Cora." Her name was a growl. "Tell me to stop."
"No."
She grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer.
His mouth left hers, trailing down her jaw, her neck. His teeth grazed her pulse point and she moaned — loud in the empty room.
"You have no idea," he rasped against her throat, "what you do to me."
"Show me."
She felt him shudder. Felt his control waver.
His hand slid beneath her shirt. Rough palm against soft skin. His fingers traced her waist, her stomach, climbing—
The door slammed open.
They froze.
"Alpha." Marcus's voice was carefully neutral, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "There's been a development. Council chamber. Now."
Damien didn't move immediately. His hand was still under her shirt. His body still pressed against hers.
Then he pulled back.
"This isn't over," he said quietly. Only for her.
He stood. Adjusted his shirt. Walked out without looking back.
Marcus lingered for a second.
"Apologies, Luna." And quieter: "Bad timing."
The door closed.
Cora lay on the mat, staring at the ceiling, her body throbbing.
Bad timing indeed.
She couldn't stay on the mat forever.
Eventually Cora dragged herself up, legs unsteady, skin still flushed. The training room felt too empty now. Too quiet. The ghost of his touch lingered everywhere.
She needed a shower. Cold. Very cold.
The walk back to their chambers felt longer than usual. Servants she passed looked away quickly, could they tell? Could they see what had almost happened written on her face?
She didn't care.
The bathroom was marble, the water pressure punishing in the best way. She stood under the spray until her heart rate slowed, until the heat in her blood cooled to something manageable.
It didn't fully work.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt his hands. His mouth. The weight of him pressing her down.
"This isn't over."
She shivered despite the hot water.
They ate together.
Mira kept the conversation light — gossip about the kitchen staff, complaints about a guard who kept trying to flirt with her, speculation about why the head librarian had been spotted actually awake for once.
But underneath the casual chatter, her mind kept drifting. To Damien. To the bond that pulsed steadily in her chest, carrying echoes of his frustration, his impatience.
He was in meetings. She could feel the tension in him, the barely leashed irritation. Political nonsense keeping him from what he wanted.
Keeping him from her.
"You're not listening," Mira said.
Cora blinked. "What?"
"I asked if you wanted dessert, and you just stared into space for thirty seconds." Mira leaned forward, chin in her hands. "You've got it bad."
"Got what?"
"The mate bond thing. The whole 'can't stop thinking about him' thing." Mira's expression softened. "It's okay, you know. To want him. To feel it. That's what the bond does."
Cora looked down at her plate. "It's complicated."
"Everything is complicated. Doesn't mean it's not real."
Mira left after dinner.
The chambers felt too big without her. Too quiet. Cora tried to read one of the books from the library, a dry history of pack territories but the words blurred on the page.
She could feel Damien still and
He was thinking about her too
She knew it the same way she knew her own heartbeat.
The fire crackled. The clock on the mantle ticked. Night pressed against the windows, heavy and dark.
Cora gave up on reading. Changed into something soft , a silk slip that Mira had insisted she needed, the color of cream, thin straps and a hem that barely reached her thighs.
She told herself it wasn't for him.
She was lying.
She brushed her hair. Climbed into the massive bed. Pulled the covers up to her chest and stared at the canopy above.
Waiting.
Not admitting she was waiting.
He was coming.