Lena
His words hang in the silent air between us, a choice laid bare. Give up, or let him build me into a warrior.
There is no choice. Not really.
“Fine,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Train me.”
Ronan gives a single, sharp nod, as if my answer was a foregone conclusion. “Then we begin now. Show me your father’s Serpent Strike. Full speed.”
I hesitate for only a second before moving. I push the throbbing pain in my wrist aside and flow through the sequence I’ve practiced a thousand times. My feet find their marks in the damp grass, my hands slice through the cool night air.
He stops me before I’m halfway through. Not with a word, but with a hand that shoots out and grips my shoulder, freezing me in place.
“This is what will get you killed,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Everything you are doing is wrong.”
My jaw tightens. “My father wrote this.”
“Your father was an Alpha. He wrote this for an opponent. He did not write it for you. You are trying to fight like him, trying to plant your feet and meet force with force. You are not an oak tree. You are a river. You must flow around the rock.”
He releases me. “Forget everything in that book. Forget everything you think you know. Tonight, you are a blank slate. Your first lesson is how to fall.”
For the next hour, he does nothing but push me. A light shove to my chest, a quick sweep of my legs, a tap to my shoulder that sends me completely off-balance. Each time I hit the ground with a jarring thud.
“Get up,” he commands.
I push myself up, my muscles screaming.
He pushes me down again. “You tense up before impact. You are trying to fight the ground. The ground always wins. Get up.”
My breath comes in ragged gasps. Every part of my body aches. The bruise on my hip from Kade’s ‘accident’ has found a dozen new friends. This is worse than any bullying. This is systematic destruction.
“I don’t understand,” I grit out, spitting a piece of grass from my mouth.
“You are an omega,” he states, not as an insult, but as a fact. “Your center of gravity is lower. You are faster. More agile. Alphas fight to stay on their feet. You will learn to make the ground your ally. You will be more dangerous on your back than they are standing.”
His logic is brutal, but it cuts through my frustration. He is not trying to turn me into an Alpha. He is trying to weaponize what I am.
He spends the next week tearing me down. We meet every night. He dismantles my stance, my footwork, my blocks. He forces me to drill the same basic movements until my body moves without thought, until every muscle burns with a clean, sharp fire.
He doesn’t coddle me. He never offers a word of praise. His only instruction is “Again.” His only feedback is pointing out a flaw.
But he sees me. For the first time, I feel like someone is looking past the omega, past the orphan, and seeing the raw material underneath. It’s a strange, addictive sort of agony.
Tonight, he teaches me something new.
“A larger opponent will always try to use their weight,” he explains, circling me in the dark. “They will lunge. They will grab. They will try to pin you. You will let them.”
He moves in, his approach a controlled, powerful lunge, his hand reaching for my throat.
“Most fighters would try to block this,” he says, his fingers stopping an inch from my skin. “You will not. You will use my own motion against me. You will pivot, redirect, and throw. Show me.”
He steps back, resetting. “Come on.”
I try. I see his lunge, and my instincts scream to put my hands up, to brace for impact. I try to pivot, but I’m too slow, too clumsy. He brushes my attempt aside with ease.
“You are thinking too much,” he says, his voice sharp. “Your body already knows what to do. Get out of its way. Again.”
He lunges again. I miss the timing. My foot slips.
“Again.”
He lunges a third time. I get the pivot right, but my grip on his arm is weak. He powers through it.
“I can’t do it,” I say, frustration choking me. “You’re too strong.”
“I am not using my strength,” he counters, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “I am using your hesitation. Your fear. Let it go. Again.”
He comes at me again, faster this time. There is no time to think. No time to doubt. My body just reacts.
I don’t meet his force. I melt away from it.
My left foot pivots back, my body twisting like a whip. My hand doesn’t block his arm, it catches his wrist, guiding it past me. As his weight and momentum surge forward into empty space, I drop my hips and bring my other leg around, sweeping his feet from under him.
He is a mountain, but for a split second, he is weightless.
The ground shakes with a heavy thud as he lands flat on his back.
Silence. All I can hear is my own heart hammering in my ears. I stare down at him, my entire body trembling with adrenaline. I did it. I threw Ronan. I just threw the most dangerous warrior in the academy.
My first thought is that I’ve gone too far. That he’s furious.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” I start to babble.
He doesn’t move. He just looks up at me from the ground, his expression unreadable. Then, I see it. It’s not anger in his eyes. It’s not even surprise.
It’s a flicker of something else. Something I’ve never seen on his face before.
Pride.
He pushes himself up in one smooth motion, brushing dirt from his shoulders.
“Good,” he says. The single word hits me with more force than any of his shoves.
He settles back into his fighting stance.
“Again.”
