Page 1 of Training the Alpha

Alex

It takes me all of ten seconds to realize that The Foundry Boxing Gym is a far cry from The Royal Conservatory of Ballet. Although I suppose that’s not a surprise.

The smell of worn leather, sweat, and the metallic tang of iron hits me immediately. Instead of the wall-to-wall windows and mirrors I’m used to at the studios I’ve spent my life training in, I’m faced with walls of industrial, bare concrete that remind me of the warehouse I worked in for one miserable summer between graduating high school and starting my traineeship at the Conservatory nearly a decade ago.

The clientele isn’t too dissimilar from my old colleagues at the warehouse either—a gaggle of huge, sweaty alphas who look like they’re chomping at the bit for someone to look at them the wrong way so they can start a fight. Not to mention the air in this place is dripping with enough testosterone and pheromones to knock out a small elephant.

Two alphas are sparring in the large boxing ring that dominates the centre of the gym, the fleshy, thudding sound of every jab bouncing off the gray walls along with the squeak of their boots against the canvas. Heavy bags swing from theceiling, their chain links rattling from the beams as bare-chested men batter them with blurred hands, glistening with sweat and exertion.

Okay, so maybe I could get used to this place, after all.

The strap of my well-worn sports bag cuts comfortably across my shoulder as I walk across the floor, and I don’t need to look around too hard to know there are plenty of eyes on me. Alphas are territorial by nature, so it’s only natural for their hackles to raise when a new competitor walks into the den. But I can feel the shift in the air when the looks turn from appraising to confused.

By all means, on paper I tick all the stereotypical ‘dominant alpha’boxes; I’m six foot two, with lean, broad shoulders and the kind of hyper-defined muscle tone that can only be honed by a lifetime of brutal physical discipline. And I like to think I’m not bad looking on top of that.

But I’m also wearing the same clothes I wore for my ballet class this morning: a tank top that clings to the lithe lines of my torso and emphasises my collarbones, a loose wrapped knit over the top, and a pair of figure-hugging track pants over skin-tight leggings that don’t hide the raw power in my quads. I’m also aware that my posture is far too elegant for someone who’s meant to be training for a fight.

Do I dress like someone who’s a little too confident in their physical appearance? Yes.

Is that going to make me stick out like a sore thumb in this gym? Almost definitely yes.

Do I give a flying fuck? Absolutelynot.

“Can I help you?”

The gruff voice breaks through the ambient noise of the gym, and I turn to see a man stepping out of an office that’s tucked into one corner of the space. He’s got a pen perched behind one ear, but he’s wearing athletic gear and looks like he was forgedout of steel—as tall as me but more thickly muscled, his sharp jaw covered in a few days' worth of stubble that’s as dark as his eyes, which are currently fixed on me with a measured stare that contains less apprehension than everyone else in this place. He’s got an aura of authority about him that piques my curiosity almost immediately.

I push down the flicker of interest that licks up my spine:not why you’re here, Alex.

“I’m here for the two o’clock gym induction,” I say smoothly, raising my voice slightly to carry over the sound of whooshing skipping ropes. I offer him a slow, deliberate smile, because apparently I’m incapable of not flirting even when I’m in the last place on earth where it’s going to be reciprocated. “Name’s Alex Volkov.”

The man extends a hand, shakes mine firmly, and tips his head towards the office. “Marcus,” he grunts. “Follow me, Alex.”

The brass plaque on the desk he sits behind readsMarcus Callahan, Co-Owner/Head Trainer, and the dominant aura makes a lot more sense. Head honcho.

I sit opposite him, leaning back in the chair and taking in the sparsely decorated office. Marcus’ desk is the busiest thing about the space, stacked with piles of thick, heavy books with titles likeThe Science of Strength,Principles of Kinesiology,andHigh Performance Sports Science for Athletes. So at least the guy knows his stuff.

His scent reaches my nose: a spicy blend of tobacco and amber that just screamsI’m a big, strong alpha.I wish I could say I’m turned off by that level of stereotypical alpha machismo—god knows I should be, after some of the shit I’ve had to put up with over the years—but unfortunately for me, I’m a sucker for it. Which is exactly why my dating history is basically a series of hypermasculine car crashes.

“So, tell me about yourself, Alex. What brings you to The Foundry? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like someone who’s used to getting punched in the face.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I laugh airily. “No, I’m a ballet dancer. A principal at the Royal Conservatory, if that means anything to you.”

He grimaces. “Ballet isn't my strong suit, I’m afraid.”

“It means I’m really fucking good,” I smirk. Marcus’ eyebrows travel up his forehead. “I’m training for a particularly taxing role at the moment, and I want to build my explosive power and tighten up my core. My artistic director recommended cross-training, and I thought a boxing gym would be…” I glance around wryly. “Fun.”

“I expect it’ll be a little different from a ballet studio,” he says gruffly. “We don’t do pilates or pretty music or mirrors here.”

“Maybe you should.” I quirk an eyebrow. “I saw some pretty questionable form on some of the guys out there. Although I get the impression some of them might enjoy looking at themselves lifting weights in the mirror a littletoomuch, if you catch my drift.”

He snorts a laugh, the gesture softening his features momentarily, andfuck,turns out he’s cute underneath that tough exterior. Just my luck. “You’re probably right. So what’s this role you’re training for? Anything I’d’ve heard of?”

“Probably not,” I say. “It’s calledCreature, and I’m playing the titular role.”

He frowns. “You don’t look like you should be playing a creature.”

“Such a charmer, Marcus. Do you butter up all your new clients like this?”