Page 117 of Legacy Elite

"So lose it earlier," I say. "Thank you. That's very helpful. Genuinely. I'll write that down."

Soren looks at me.

"You want to do it again," he says.

Not a question. He's got his arms folded and he's already looking at the gate, and this is the thing that has changed, this exact thing, and it happened so gradually I couldn't tell you what week it started.

He knows what I want before I've decided to want it.

"Voss has gone," I say.

"Confirmed."

"So you're staying."

Soren doesn't answer that at all, which is his most annoying trick, and goes to reset the post.

We do the course twice more and I get through the gate on the second one — barely, with a scrape down my flank and absolutely no dignity, but through — and then Soren says the thing I've been dreading.

"Human," he says. "You need the takedowns."

"I hate the takedowns."

"You're bad at the takedowns."

"That's why I hate them."

Because here's the other problem with being what I am. When I'm shifted, I'm the biggest thing in any given field. When I'm not, I weigh about as much as one of Soren's legs, and the direwolf strength does not neatly transfer into a body that hasn't got the frame for it.

So he puts me on the mats and we work controlling a bigger opponent, which mostly involves me discovering new and creative ways to end up looking at the sky.

"Your weight's forward."

"I'm aware of where my weight is—"

"Then move it."

I go again, and this time I actually get it — I get under his center and I twist and for one glorious second I feel Evren Soren's balance go — and then he corrects, because of course he does, and turns it, and I end up caught against his chest with his arm across my back.

And we stop.

Both of us.

His hand is at my waist. My fist is closed in the front of his shirt. My shoulder's against his sternum and I can feel him breathing, hard, from the last two minutes, and I can feel exactly how much of him there is.

Neither of us lets go.

The pull comes up under my ribs, warm and slow and completely unmistakable, and I have known what that is since a very small office with a mug on the desk, and I am done pretending otherwise.

I look up.

He's already looking down.

His eyes go to my mouth and back up, once, fast, and his hand at my waist doesn't move an inch, and there is absolutely no version of this that is still about training.

"Are you going to keep pretending?" I say.

"I'm not pretending."