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My hands, experienced in the art of both violence and restraint, twitch at my sides as she bends forward, wordlessly asking for assistance with her stretches. There’s no mistaking the intention in her eyes—bold, unshielded. She’s always been unafraid, almost to a fault.
“Help me stretch?” she finally speaks, eyes not leaving mine.
It's a simple ask. Innocent even, if it were anyone but her. My nod is curt, betraying none of the turmoil raging beneath my stern exterior.
I approach, hands steadying her, guiding her into the stretch. Every point of contact is fire and ice, an exhilarating andterrifying blend of emotions that I’ve forcibly buried for far too long.
Her muscles tense and release under my palms, each exhale she takes singeing my nerves. This isn’t just training or stretching. It's an unspoken communication, a dance of concealed desires and forbidden lines in tentative motion. Her body is lean, toned, and powerful. All the same, it’s impossible to not notice her curves, her shape.
Anastasia leans into the stretch, a slight grimace on her face. "Samuil," she grunts, "this hurts more than I expected."
"Then you haven't been stretching properly," I say, gently pushing her further into the stretch. "Flexibility is key. You can't expect to dodge or land a hit if you're too stiff."
She exhales slowly, eyes locking onto mine. "So what's the game plan?"
"First, your agility. We’ll focus on drills to boost your reaction time." I adjust her position, and she winces but nods for me to continue. "Second, your endurance. I've seen how you fight. You've got speed and skill, but you need to last longer in the ring."
She smirks, that cocky grin I’ve grown so fond of. "You think I can't handle an extensive fight?"
I raise an eyebrow, one corner of my mouth tugging upward. "Prove me wrong."
She chuckles. "Alright, coach. What's next?"
"Strength training, but not just lifting weights. Functional strength. We'll integrate movements that mirror the dynamics of an actual fight."
She nods, eyes serious and determined. "Okay. Anything else?"
"We work on your strategy," I say, my hands guiding her into the next stretch. "Knowing when to strike, when to pull back.It's not just about landing a punch but landing it at the right moment."
She takes a deep breath, absorbing everything I've said. "Got it. Let's do this."
With that, she leans into my touch, an act of trust and subtle invitation, and it's almost too much.
“This isn’t a game, Anastasia,” I find myself growling, my voice low and edged with a warning.
Dark eyes filled with unspoken secrets, meet mine, “Who said I’m playing?”
The close proximity between us is suffocating. Every flex, every curve of her body under my hands has my mind racing. There's a familiarity in touching her, and yet today, everything feels amplified. Every time she groans—a soft, unintentionally seductive sound—heat surges through me. It's a sound I've never heard from her before, and it undoes me in ways I can't articulate.
I try to focus on the stretch, on the intent behind the training session, but it's becoming increasingly difficult. Her scent, a mix of sweat and something unique to Anastasia, wraps around me. My fingers brush the warm skin of her thighs as I adjust her position, and the taut muscles beneath her athletic wear betray just how fit and ready she is. The sight of her, glistening with sweat, her chest heaving as she breathes, the contours of her body emphasized by her fitted outfit, makes my throat dry.
"Samuil?" she asks, noticing my hesitation, her gaze questioning, piercing.
Dammit this is all sorts of wrong. My hand lingers on her back, inadvertently tracing the line of her spine, a boundary unmistakably crossed.
I pull away abruptly, my own limits clashing violently with the yearning pulsating through every fiber of my being.
"I need to grab some water before we begin," I mutter, retreating hastily before things go a step too far.
As I head toward the door, I can feel her eyes boring into me, a mix of frustration and lingering desire likely mirroring my own. My skin is ablaze, hands trembling slightly as I fumble with the door handle.
The hallway beyond is cool, a stark contrast to the heated intensity of the room I just vacated. I lean against the wall, struggling to regain control over the chaos erupting within me. But my mind is awash with images of her—strong, resilient, tempting.
Shoving away from the wall, I stride toward the small kitchenette, the cold water doing little to quench the fire that Anastasia’s ignited.
My reflection in the small mirror above the sink reveals the visible battle being waged internally — dark eyes filled with discord; jaw tightly clenched. I'm the enforcer, the tough wall that stands unyielding against chaos, but with her, it’s different. It’s always been different.
Gulping down another mouthful of water, I drag a hand down my face, steeling myself for what I must do. Protect her, train her, and keep my damn hands—and heart—off her.
