Chapter 17 17
By sunrise, the rain had turned into a steady drizzle, soaking the forest in mist and mud. Birds chirped like they were mocking me, squirrels darted past as if flexing their stamina, and there I was—half-dead, wheezing like a broken accordion in a pair of joggers older than my dignity.
Gregor, of course, looked like he had been carved from steel and smugness. His long strides cut through the mud like he was walking on clouds, not drenched dirt. The man didn’t even sweat. Not a single drop. His shirt clung to him from the rain, but his breathing? Smooth. Calm. Like he was meditating instead of sprinting through a freaking thunderstorm.
Meanwhile, I was dying. Absolutely, positively dying.
“Why—” I gasped, tripping over a root and catching myself on a tree—“are we running—in the rain—like criminals escaping an action movie?”
He glanced back over his shoulder, barely out of breath. “Because you need stamina.”
“I have stamina,” I wheezed. “For shopping. And sarcasm. And occasionally running away from homicidal maniacs. But not this.”
His mouth twitched. I swore the smug bastard was holding back a smile. “You call yourself a dark warrior, yet you can’t run five miles without choking?”
I threw my arms up. “Excuse me? I didn’t ask for the ‘dark warrior’ gene package, okay? I didn’t wake up one morning and say, yes, please, I’d love to inherit a mysterious shadow wolf and a death wish. That was life’s idea. Not mine.”
The rain poured harder, plastering my hair to my face. My shoes squelched with every miserable step. I swear the mud was personally out to assassinate me.
Gregor stopped abruptly, turning with that damn Alpha stance, rain dripping down his jaw like he was starring in some broody cologne ad. “You’re not dying, Marigold. You’re training.”
I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “Training? Gregor, I am literally seeing my ancestors waving at me through the trees. One of them is even holding cookies. It’s my time.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re sadistic.”
He ignored me and crouched down in the mud. “Push-ups. Now.”
My jaw dropped. “Push-ups? Out here? In this mud? In these shoes?”
“On the ground,” he said firmly. “Five sets of twenty.”
I pointed at him, outraged. “I’m not doing burpees in the swamp, Tarzan.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Then you’ll never survive the next ambush.”
I groaned loudly, muttering curses about smug alphas and their superiority complexes, but finally dropped into the mud. The first push-up nearly ended me. My arms trembled. My nose nearly kissed a worm.
“This is abuse,” I grunted, struggling through the second.
“It’s discipline,” he corrected, standing over me with his arms crossed.
“This is murder!”
“Your form is terrible,” he added helpfully.
I shot him a glare mid-push. “Oh, thank you, Captain Obvious. I’ll be sure to note that in my obituary: Here lies Marigold, died tragically while doing ugly push-ups in the rain because her Alpha was a sadist.”
By the fifth one, I collapsed flat on my stomach. Mud smeared my face, my hair looked like drowned moss, and honestly? I didn’t care. “I’m done. Bury me here. Tell Nonna I loved her soup.”
Gregor crouched down next to me, annoyingly steady, annoyingly perfect. His hand hovered near my chin, but he pulled back at the last second. “Pathetic.”
I rolled onto my back, glaring up at him through the rain. “You know what’s pathetic? You acting like this is the Olympics while we’re literally hunted by assassins. Priorities, Alpha.”
“You think fighting is only about claws and teeth? Without endurance, you’ll be dead in minutes.” His voice was sharp, but underneath, there was something else. Frustration? Worry?
I groaned, throwing an arm dramatically over my eyes. “You’re enjoying this. Admit it. Watching me suffer gives you joy.”
He smirked—actually smirked. “Maybe a little.”
I sat up, mud dripping down my clothes, hair sticking up like a wet crow’s nest. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re stubborn,” he countered. “But…” His gaze lingered on me, sharp yet soft in a way I didn’t understand. “…you don’t quit. Even when you’re terrible. That’s something.”
Something? Oh great. He was tossing me scraps of encouragement like I was a stray dog.
“Gee,” I said flatly. “Thanks, coach. Next time, just pat me on the head and toss me a treat.”
His lips twitched again. That almost-smile.
I looked away quickly, my heart doing something stupid and traitorous. The rain kept falling, thunder rolled in the distance, and I swore the forest itself was laughing at me.
And still, despite the mud in my teeth and my pride in shambles, I couldn’t shake the tiniest spark of something warm. Dangerous. Like maybe, just maybe, I didn’t hate training with him as much as I claimed.
So apparently, after nearly collapsing doing sadistic rain-push-ups, Alpha Smugpants decided it was time for sparring.
“You’ve got the wolf,” Gregor said, circling me in the clearing like a predator ready to pounce, “but no discipline. Time to fix that.”
I groaned, flopping my arms at my sides. “Discipline? Gregor, I can barely feel my arms. They’re noodles. You’re asking spaghetti to fight you.”
“Then be sharp spaghetti,” he said flatly.
I blinked at him. “Did you just…? Did the Great Alpha Gregor just make a pasta metaphor?”
His jaw twitched. “Focus.”
“Ha!” I pointed at him. “That was humor! Admit it!”
He lunged at me before I could gloat further, his massive frame moving faster than I thought possible. I squeaked, dove to the side, and immediately face-planted into the mud.
Behind me, he sighed. Sighed.
“Pathetic.”
I pushed myself up, wiping muck from my cheek. “Listen here, Alpha Terminator, some of us don’t spend our entire lives bench-pressing wolves. Give me a second.”
He didn’t give me a second. He grabbed my wrist, yanked me upright, and spun me toward him with all the gentleness of a hurricane. His chest collided with mine, hard muscle against my soggy mess, and my breath caught.
“First rule,” he said, voice low, his breath warm despite the cold rain, “never let your opponent take control.”
“Second rule,” I shot back, though my voice wobbled a little, “personal space exists for a reason.”
Instead of backing off, he smirked—that annoying, infuriating smirk that made me want to punch him and maybe kiss him at the same time. Then he shoved me lightly back into stance.
We circled.
I tried to mimic the moves he’d shown me—low guard, steady feet, eyes locked on him. But when he feinted left and went right, I panicked and swung too wide.
He caught my arm, twisted, and the next second I was flat on my back in the mud, staring up at the grey sky.
“Dead again,” he said dryly.
I groaned, spreading my arms wide. “You know, I’ve died like four times today. At this rate, I’ll qualify for ghost benefits.”
His shadow loomed over me as he extended a hand. I took it—big mistake. He yanked me up too fast, and because the mud was slick, I stumbled straight into him.
My palms slapped against his chest. His hands steadied my waist. We froze.
Rain poured down, dripping from his lashes, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes locked on mine, dark and intense, and suddenly the whole damn forest disappeared.
“Well,” I whispered, trying not to choke on my own heartbeat. “This is awkward.”
“Is it?” he murmured back, his grip tightening just slightly.
Oh no. Oh hell no. My wolf purred, the traitor, pressing closer to his dominance like it was catnip. My brain, however, screamed: Danger! Hot man! Abort mission!
I shoved at his chest. “Don’t get all broody-romance on me. We’re in the mud. I smell like worms. You smell like wet dog. This is not sexy.”
His lips curved. “You think I’m trying to be sexy?”
I sputtered. “Well—you’re—you—ugh!”
Before I could finish, he swept my legs out from under me again, and we went tumbling. This time, though, he didn’t let go. We rolled, mud splashing everywhere, until he pinned me down beneath him.
His weight pressed me into the earth, his hand braced beside my head, his eyes blazing with wolf-light. “Rule three,” he said, voice rougher now. “Always be ready to get dirty.”
I blinked up at him, rain dripping down both our faces. “Was that a fighting rule or a pickup line?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at me, too long, too intense. My pulse thundered.
“I am a dark warrior wolf. I am an alpha. I don't do pickup line.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my debt backwards.
But…
Finally, I cleared my throat and blurted the only thing that came to mind: “If you don’t move in the next three seconds, Mr Alpha sir. I’m biting your nipple.”
That startled a laugh out of him. A real laugh—low, rich, and absolutely unfair. He rolled off me, letting me scramble upright, my face burning despite the cold rain.
“Better,” he said simply. “We’ll make a warrior out of you yet.”
“Or a corpse,” I muttered, brushing mud off my ass. “Either way, you’ll get your wish.”
But when his eyes flicked toward me again, sharp but softened with that almost-smile, I had the horrible suspicion that maybe I wanted to train again tomorrow.
Even if it killed me.
Because damn.
Those abs.