Elena's POV
I don't know what happened to Damon. One second we were training — punches, kicks, sweat, discipline — and the next?
The man snapped.
Not in the angry, throw-you-across-the-room way. No. In the Damon way.
The touchy, smirky, arrogant bastard kind of way that made it very hard to remember why I was supposed to be mad at him in the first place.
At first, I thought I imagined it.
My roundhouse kick came fast — clean form, good angle — but instead of blocking like he had a hundred times before, he caught my leg mid-air. No real effort. No resistance. Just a smooth, infuriating move.
But he didn't push me back.
He held it.
His hand slid down my thigh like he was measuring it, fingers brushing my skin far longer than necessary. A featherlight caress just above my knee, then higher, like he forgot we were training and not starring in some lust-fueled fantasy he was conjuring on the mat.
He let go — slowly — as if peeling himself away was an inconvenience.
