Page 97 of Wings of Destruction

They don’t believe any special consideration should be given simply because of my last name.

Tristan has his own private space as well but he lords it over the others and somehow they seem to respect him more for it. Maybe because he is playing the part they expect.

I’m not.

The only good thing about the private gym is the attached locker and bathroom where I know I won’t be disturbed.

Tonight, the gym door is shut but the sounds from inside are unmistakable. Someone’s in there moving across the mat, breathing raggedly enough to wake the dead.

My throat bobs. Cautiously, I push open the door for a peek inside. One glance is enough to confirm my suspicion.

It’s her.

I let out a low breath and shake my head, pressing the heel of my palm into my eyes to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

Morgan moves with the detachment of a hardened soldier too long on the frontlines of battle, one who has seen and experienced things no one should have to.

She’s wearing some kind of ugly potato sack of a nightdress with the long skirt twisted in a circle and knotted around her legs. It gives her more maneuvering room as she works herself through a series of balance postures. Sweat plasters the material to her skin, delicate strands of hair escaping her ponytail.

Her eyes narrow as she strikes a cutting blow and then holds herself still.

Her muscles tremble, her grip strong, but she doesn’t drop her arm. The wooden staff holds steady in the air despite the tremble.

Look away.

She moves well. Very well, I’m forced to admit, better than several of the other men I’ve seen on the fields. She needs a bit more training to get her where she needs to be to hold a real blade but there is a certain grace to her movements.

Not to mention the hardened gleam of her eyes.

There is no hesitation when she strikes against her invisible enemies, only a fiery will. If she were up against a real opponent then she might be overpowered soon enough. She leaves herself open on too many fronts. Not to mention any soldier she faces will employ underhanded tactics.

No one will hesitate to strike her across her tendons and sever them so she’s unable to get up again.

My mouth goes dry, a knot forming in my stomach. A trail of warmth shoots with precision down to my core.

Fascinated, I stare, my fingers frozen on the door.

I hardly feel the cold night deepening the chill inside the castle walls. All her rage, walled up inside of her without an outlet⁠—

Her movements echo the battle cry inside of me.

Tears fall from her eyes and she lets them, moving like she’ll knock the stars loose from the sky.

It tears something inside of me.

The way her anger powers her movement is raw, untapped. Does Morgan put that same power into everything she does? Would she kiss with the same hunger, like she might consume her partner entirely? Would her fingers clench against skin and leave bruises behind, a mark of her passion and claiming?

I slide my tongue across my lips. What does she taste like when she’s fighting?

Will her taste change if she chooses to yield?

Would she buck and claw and fight if I press my body to hers or would she be soft and open? There isn’t a single bone in her body willing to give me anything, I’m sure of it.

I reel myself back in. The intensity and desire won’t change anything. The woman is a force to be reckoned with and I have no business watching her.

I shift my gaze to the racks of weights and other exercise tools.

How many of them has she used?