Elena arrived at the training yard the next morning deeply annoyed.
Not flustered. Not nervous. Not hopelessly undone.
Annoyed.
Because Soren had not mentioned the kiss. Not once.
He had not come to her chambers. Had not summoned her. Had not even looked at her like a man who had absolutely kissed her senseless against a wall and then been interrupted by fate and Kael's tragic timing.
Instead, he had done what he always did.
Touched her lightly in corridors. Hovered too close. Guided her with a hand at her waist, her back, her elbow. Breathed her name like it meant something.
And then—nothing.
No explanation. No acknowledgement. No we need to talk about what nearly happened.
So Elena had slept alone, stared at the ceiling, and cycled through the following thoughts in order:
1. He regretted it.
2. He didn't regret it but thought she did.
3. This was some deeply northern, emotionally constipated court etiquette she hadn't received the pamphlet for.
4. She was going to lose her mind.
Which was why she was here.
In the cold. With weapons. Trying to be normal. Repeated "I am a composed adult" twelve times.
She was ready. She was fine.
She was—
Soren entered the training yard.
Not shirtless. Not gentle. No.
He walked in wearing tight, black leather, molded to every line of his body like it had been forged onto him. His gloves were already on—dark, fitted, smooth over hands that had held her, lifted her, ruined her ability to think. His hair was still damp from washing, water tracing down the stark line of his throat before disappearing beneath the raised collar of his armor.
Muscle. Controlled strength. Absolute danger wrapped in winter and shadow.
Elena forgot her own name. Absolutely forgot it.
"Focus," Soren said as he approached, voice low and cutting through her thoughts like a blade.
He tossed her a wooden practice dagger.
"On what?" she asked before her brain caught up.
He blinked. Slowly.
"The lesson."
"Oh. Yes. Obviously."
God. Kill her. Someone kill her now.
Soren circled her, the leather of his armor shifting with lethal softness, every movement a reminder that this man carried power the way others carried breath.
When he nudged her elbow into position, she nearly dropped the dagger.
When he slid one gloved hand along her spine to straighten it, her entire nervous system sparked like a live wire.
When he stepped behind her, adjusting her grip from over her shoulder, the heat of his body radiated through the cold morning like a promise she had no business hearing.
"Elena," he murmured from behind her, voice low enough to melt snow, "you're trembling."
"No I'm not."
"You are."
"It's cold."
"It's not."
"Then… low blood sugar."
Soren stepped into her line of sight, folding his arms — leather tightening over his biceps in a way that should have been illegal.
"You had breakfast," he said. "I watched you."
"Creepy."
"Responsible," he corrected.
A Sentinel snorted somewhere behind them. Elena glared blindly at the yard.
"All right," Soren said, tone clipped. "Again. Strike."
Elena lifted the dagger. She attempted focus. She attempted breathing. She attempted not imagining his gloved hand between her thighs—
She swung. Missed. By seven geographical regions.
Soren stared at the empty air where his shoulder had not even been close to being hit.
"Elena."
"Yes?" she squeaked.
"That was not an attack."
"It was… interpretive."
"It was catastrophic."
"Okay rude—"
"No," Soren said, stepping closer, "again."
He repositioned her elbow. She squeaked. He corrected her stance. She nearly fell. He adjusted her wrist. She forgot how hands worked.
Her brain was soup, her pulse was chaos, and all she could think was:
His gloves. His gloves. His gloves.
"Elena," he said, voice tightening, "what is wrong with you today?"
You. You are what is wrong with me, she thought.
What she said was:
"I'm just—thinking."
"Stop thinking."
"I physically can't."
He exhaled through his nose like a man praying for strength.
"Again."
She lifted the dagger. Her eyes—traitors—dropped to his gloved fingers. Her knees wobbled.
He groaned. Actually groaned. In frustration, not arousal, which was unfair because she was doing both.
"Elena," Soren said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "your stance is worse than before."
"Impossible," she muttered. "It was already terrible."
He ignored that. Of course he did.
"Feet apart," he ordered sharply. "Shoulders down. Back straight. Hips stable."
Oh, she thought weakly, his hips are stable. Her brain melted into hot fondue.
He stepped behind her again — so close she felt the cold leather of his armor brush her shoulder, his gloved fingers adjusting her elbow with precision so unfair it should be illegal.
"Your center of balance is drifting," he said, tone clipped. "Again."
She inhaled. Exhaled. Tried not to die.
Soren stepped back to observe.
"Strike."
Elena swung.
Missed.
She missed so broadly and with such dramatic enthusiasm that she nearly spun herself into a full 360° turn.
Soren stared. Stared. Then slowly closed his eyes like a man speaking to a deity for patience.
"Elena."
"…yes?"
"Did you aim for my shadow?"
"No," she said defensively. Yes, her soul whispered.
He paced once, hands on his hips — giving her a fatal, devastating view of muscle shifting under stretched leather.
She whimpered internally. Soren, oblivious as a brick wall, snapped his attention back to her.
"You need conditioning," he declared. "Your reflexes are slow, your balance inconsistent, and your mind is wandering."
Oh, she thought, if only you knew where it was wandering.
He pointed to the far end of the training yard.
"Run."
She blinked. "…run what?"
"Laps," he said firmly. "Four."
"FOUR?!"
He raised a brow. "Would you prefer six?"
"No!"
"Then run."
"But why?!"
Soren folded his arms — leather tightening over his chest in a way that definitely qualified as psychological warfare.
"Because," he said coolly, "you clearly lack focus."
No shit, she almost said.
Instead, she groaned and began to jog——like a woman doing the walk of shame around a courtyard full of armed witnesses.
The Sentinels watched politely. Then not-so-politely. Then Eris whispered to Kael: "She's making the noise of someone dying."
Kael replied, "She's running like a newborn deer."
Elena wheezed louder out of spite. After she finished the fourth lap (or maybe the third—time lost meaning), she staggered back toward Soren, sweat-damp hair sticking to her forehead.
He handed her a cup of water.
She took it gratefully.
Then he said, without a trace of irony: "Good. Now do it again."
She nearly threw the cup at him.
"Why?" she croaked.
He stared at her like it was obvious. "Because you are still unfocused."
She glared, breathless. "You have NO idea."
"I am your instructor," he replied. "It is my duty to improve you."
"Oh trust me," she muttered, "you're improving something."
"What?"
"Nothing!"
Soren clapped once. Loud. Commanding.
"Run."
Elena groaned loud enough to scare a pigeon out of the courtyard.
She ran exactly six more steps before she stopped dead, spun around, and marched back toward Soren with the righteous fury of a woman who had reached her limit both physically and sexually.
Soren blinked at her return, confused.
"I said run," he reminded, voice crisp.
"I heard you," she said, breathless and furious. "But I need to say something."
He crossed his arms, expression annoyed but patient in the way one is patient with a very small, loud puppy. He did not expect what Elena actually did.
She walked toward him — slowly, deliberately — with a look that hit him like a blade made of heat.
"Elena?" Soren asked carefully.
She didn't answer. She reached him. Stood in his shadow.
Lifted her hand and — with agonizing softness — traced two fingers along the leather of his forearm.
Soren's breath stopped. Completely.
"Do you want to know," she murmured, leaning just a little closer, "why I can't focus?"
His jaw flexed. "Elena—"
She brushed her fingers higher, across the hard line of his bicep. Every muscle in Soren's body locked.
"You walk in here with gloves," she whispered, eyes on his hands, "wearing this… armor… looking like that… and you expect me to pretend I'm not thinking about you?"
Soren's pupils blew wide, black swallowing the blue.
"Elena," he repeated—but softer now, rougher, like her name scraped his throat raw on the way out.
Her hand drifted up to lightly touch the collar of his armor.
"If you really want to know why I missed," she said, voice low enough to melt the snow under their feet, "it's because I can't stop thinking about what those gloves would feel like on my skin."
Soren made a sound. A deep, involuntary, wrecked sound.
He stepped into her without thinking — one hand gripping her waist, the other braced behind her, dragging her flush against him.
She gasped at the feel of him — heat, strength, arousal that left no doubt, no space, no air.
"Elena," he growled, "you do not get to say things like that in public."
She tilted her chin up. "And what if I just did?"
His self-control snapped in half.
In a single, resonant command, he bellowed: "TRAINING DISMISSED. NOW."
Every Sentinel within fifty meters flinched and scattered like startled crows.
Kael didn't even pretend to question it. Eris nearly tripped over his own feet.
The moment they were alone, Soren seized Elena's wrists — not harsh, not painful, but with a desperate, trembling need.
"You," he breathed, voice wrecked, "are going to walk out of this yard with me."
She swallowed, pulse wild.
"And then," he continued, leaning so close his breath brushed her lips, "you are going to tell me every single detail of what you imagine my hands doing to you."
Her knees nearly buckled. Soren caught her hips, holding her up, holding her against him.
"Elena," he rasped, "you started this."
Her breath shuddered. "I know."
"And now," he said, dragging her out of the training ring with unmistakable purpose, "you're going to finish it."
She let him pull her.
Fast. Hungry. Barely holding together.
Her voice was a whisper of flame:
"Soren… I'll tell you everything."
He stumbled. Actually stumbled.
Then recovered and growled—quiet, lethal, undone: "Good. Because I'm going to need every word."
He didn't slow.
And Elena followed, heart pounding, heat rising, ready to say every forbidden thing she'd been holding back.