Page 70 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

I groaned. “Urg, not running. It’s my least favourite.”

“Hey, it’s so much nicer running in nature than around the city,” Kit said, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of lightly tanned skin and the sharp cut of muscle beneath—the definition of his abs, the distinct V that disappeared beneath his waistband. I quickly looked away.

“Will you… change into your wolf?” I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t excited about it. And nervous.

Kit shook his head. “Not yet. How will I shout at you to run faster?” He grinned at me, horizon-wide, and for a moment, my breath caught in my throat.

I dropped my own bag next to his, hoping Kit would somehow remember which tree this was because it looked like every other bloody tree in the forest to me.

“So, this running route,” I said, affecting an innocent tone. “It doesn’t happen to have any public toilets along the way, does it?”

Kit blinked, caught completely off guard. “What? No, why would—”

Realisation dawned across his face. The wheelie bins. Wren. Kit’s “bathroom emergency” excuse.

“You little—” He gave me a tiny shove that sent me stumbling sideways, completely unprepared for the contact.

“Hey, no sneak attacks!” I protested, laughing despite myself.

Kit’s cheeks had gone slightly pink. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

Another fluttery somersault. Or maybe I was getting ill. But probably not, because I couldn’t stop sneaking sideways glances at Kit. Standing here in the dappled sunlight, his hair still mussed from the helmet, he looked so much younger. Less guarded.

“Enough stalling,” Kit snapped, his voice taking on a clipped, authoritative edge. Military commander mode had been activated, apparently. “We’re here to train, not chat.”

I tried to stand straighter, squaring my shoulders like I’d seen Rory do when Seb got particularly stern. Kit’s eyebrows rose slightly—probably at my pathetic attempt to look soldierlike—but he gestured towards the path.

“Right then. Off we go.”

The first thirty seconds weren’t terrible. I managed a reasonable pace, arms pumping, breathing steady. I could do this. I was fit enough for a gentle woodland jog. Surely my sessions with Kit had improved my tragic situation.

By the three-minute mark, my lungs were on fire.

“This is—” I gasped, stumbling slightly over a tree root. “This is—completely—unfair.”

Kit jogged beside me with the casual grace of someone who could probably run marathons without breaking a sweat. His breathing remained perfectly even while I wheezed like a broken accordion.

“How are you—not even—breathing hard?” I panted.

“Supernatural stamina helps,” Kit said, his voice maddeningly steady. I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he tried not to laugh at my obvious suffering. “But mainly, I actually exercise daily.”

My foot caught on another root—a particularly vindictive one that seemed to leap directly into my path. I pitched forward, arms windmilling uselessly, but before I could face-plant into the forest floor, Kit’s hands caught my shoulders, steadying me with ease.

“Careful,” he murmured, his face suddenly much closer than expected. Flecks of silver sparkled in his grey eyes.

“Thanks,” I managed. Kit’s hands lingered for just a moment before he released me.

Five minutes later, I was dying. Actually dying. My chest burned, my legs felt like jelly, and there was a suspicious stitch developing in my side that suggested imminent organ failure.

I threw both hands up in a T shape, the universal symbol for time-out.

“Break,” I wheezed. “Medical emergency.”

Kit rolled his eyes, but I caught his grin. “You’re pathetic, Felix.”

“I prefer ‘aerobically challenged,’” I gasped. “Less judgmental.”

“Come on, let’s go back for water.”