“Better,” he says, too close to my ear for the sake of this training. “Again.”
We repeat the sequence. Strike, block, counter, move. Over and over again, until my muscles burn and my legs threaten to buckle.
Only then does he call an end to the session, his eyes never leaving me as I go to get my water bottle.
Day three, and a pattern has formed. Mornings and afternoons for combat training, evenings for stealth and strategy between calls, and whatever different tasks Ares still needs to do to keep things running. While nights… well, nights are for what Ares likes to call mycontinued punishments. Somehow, those only make me want to piss him off a little every day. The more I do, the more my legs give out each morning when I get out of bed.
Though my leg improves each day, the pain where previously it felt like sharp stabs now resembles a persistent ache that I can manage a lot better.
“Your center of gravity,” he instructs, one hand splayed across my abdomen as I balance on my healing leg. “Feel it. Own it.” His touch lingers longer than necessary, his thumb brushing just beneath my breast, and over his mark as he withdraws.
I retaliate during sparring, landing a solid hit in the center of his abdomen, right on his solar plexus. His eyes flash with anger, then approval, before he sweeps my legs out from under me, following me down the mat, careful not to land directly on me.
For a moment, we lie there.My back pressed to the floor, his weight partially on top of me. Our breathing synchronizes, our chests rising and falling in the same rhythm, making his eyes darken as he looks down at me. That tells me exactly how the night will end—over the edge of his bed.
Day five brings new challenges. Ares shows me a set of practice locks, studying my every move as I manage to unlock them much faster than he would’ve expected. I did have some training of my own before I got a job at his bar.
Still, he isn’t totally pleased. “Too slow,” he says, standing over me. “If there was real security, you would have been taken by now. I’m not sure you wouldcharmyour way into their beds as you did with me.”
Ouch, that stung.
He does that from time to time, the bitterness of my betrayal still vivid in his mind.
“Then stop breathing down my neck,” I glare up at him without indulging him in a fight about how I tricked him to get information on Kharon. Besides, it’s not entirely my fault he fell for me.
I don’t tell him that, though. I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle what comes next.
“There will be more pressure on you than me breathing down your neck if this is something you have to do in a real mission,” he mutters, knowing I’m not saying everything I have on my mind.
But he’s right, and I hate him for it. If this were real, I would have to hurry. So, I refocus, feeling the subtle clicks of the mechanism giving way under my fingers. When the final lock opens, I don’t acknowledge his nod of approval.
I’m trying to be good, but I can’t bethatgood.
Later, we work on silent movement. A very difficult task, given my healing leg. Ares created an obstacle course of items that would make noise if disturbed. Then he turned off the lights.
In the darkness, I move around by feel and memory, placing each foot carefully enough to complete my mission without any sound. I don’t even know what I fear most. Fucking things up during a mission. Or fucking things up right now and hearing that disapprovingtskout of him.
“Better,” he says when I complete it without a sound. “Now with me chasing you.”
The exercise becomes a predator-prey scenario, with Ares stalking me through the dark training room.
I feel his presence more than hear him, but the weight of his gaze doesn’t leave me, and when his hand closes around my wrist, I’m already turning into the hold, using the momentum against him.
We fight in silence, like someone is really watching us.
He eventually pins me. He always does. But at least I make him work for it. The night ends with my wrists bound by his belt and his whole setup crumbling beside us as he fucks me senseless in every corner of the training room.
Day six, and we focus on memorization. Floor plans, security rotations, exit strategies.
He quizzes me without stopping, asking for perfect recall, punishing me with a spank every time I mess up. And that’s a lot. On purpose.
“Three guard rotations at the east entrance,” I repeat as his fingers run straight up my inner thigh. He’s deliberately trying to distract me, and right now, I’m doing my best not to let it work.
“And if the primary exit is compromised?” he asks, his touch moving higher.
I force my brain to function through the haze of mind-blowing arousal. “Secondary exit through the kitchen service corridor, third through the cellar if necessary.”
His fingers slip under the edge of my shorts, finding how difficult it is for me to focus. I’m already wet.
