WRESTLING DEMONS
VIKTOR
I'd been avoiding Sebastian for hours. Since our argument in the corridor. Since I'd pushed too hard and driven him behind walls I'd been trying to breach.
Since I'd realized I was completely, utterly compromised.
My comm had been silent. No requests for escort. No demands for my presence. Nothing but radio silence that felt deliberate. Pointed.
He was angry. Had every right to be.
I should've given him space. Should've maintained professional distance. Should've done literally anything except what I was doing, which was gravitating toward the training hall like a compass pointing north.
The door was already open when I arrived. Light spilled into the corridor. The sound of impact echoed against stone. Controlled breathing. Movement.
I stopped in the doorway. Couldn't help it.
Sebastian was there. Already training. Already pushing himself harder than he should after two assassination attempts and whatever injuries he was hiding.
Already shirtless.
Black compression shorts clung to his hips, riding low enough toshow the cut of muscle disappearing beneath the waistband. Tape wrapped his ribs, stark white against bronze skin that gleamed with sweat under fluorescent lights. He moved through a sequence of strikes against the heavy bag, each hit controlled but vicious. His back muscles flexed with each impact, every vertebra visible as his spine arched and twisted.
His cock was half-hard in those shorts. Visible outline pressing against black fabric.
He was alone. Hadn't requested backup. Hadn't asked for supervision.
Hadn't wanted me here.
I should've left. Should've respected the space he clearly needed.
I didn't.
He must've sensed my presence because he stopped mid-strike. Turned. Caught me staring.
“Come to monitor my movements some more?” he asked. Voice carrying that edge of bitterness he'd earned. “Make sure I'm not doing anything you disapprove of?”
“Did not know you were training.”
“That's the point. I can do things without your permission.” He grabbed a water bottle, drank deep. I watched his throat work. Watched a drop escape, trail down his chest. “You can leave. I'm fine on my own.”
“You are injured. Should not train alone.”
“And yet, here I am. Training. Alone.” He set down the bottle. “Shocking that I managed to survive this long without you hovering over me.”
The words stung. Because they were meant to.
“I was not hovering.”
“Right.” His jaw tightened. “Well, you can add this to your report. Prince training without supervision. How irresponsible.”
“I am not writing report.”
“No? Just mentally cataloging all my failures for future reference?”
“Sebastian—”
“Save it.” He moved back to the heavy bag. Started anothercombination. Harder this time. Angrier. Each hit making his cock bounce in those shorts. “Unless you're here to actually train instead of lecture me about what I can and can't do, you can leave.”
