Chapter 97
Chloe's POV
My days at Price's Fight Gym were like dancing on a knife's edge.
Every morning, just as dawn began to break, Frank would kick me out of bed. "Up, girl," his voice was as cold and hard as winter ice, "what you need to learn today won't wait for you to get your beauty sleep."
I stumbled to my feet, my arms still aching from yesterday's training, barely able to lift them. But I gritted my teeth and said nothing. I knew that here, complaining was the same as admitting defeat.
Frank stood in the center of the training ground, a wooden staff in his hand. "All those fancy moves you stole from watching the warrior squad," he said with a cold laugh, "they're worth jack shit in a real fight. You know why?"
I shook my head.
"Because those techniques are designed for people with wolf spirits." Frank struck the staff against the ground with a dull thud. "You haven't awakened your wolf yet, so you need a different way to survive. What I'm teaching you is how to kill enemies stronger than yourself."
He began to demonstrate. Every movement was simple, direct, lethal. "Watch carefully," he said. "Attack the throat, the eyes, the joints. These spots are vulnerable even on an Alpha. You don't need strength—you need speed and precision."
I watched his movements, my mind racing to memorize every detail. Frank's techniques were completely different from what I'd learned before. The warrior squad taught how to overpower opponents in direct combat, while Frank taught how to strike a killing blow from a position of weakness.
"These techniques," Frank continued, "we learned them when we were rogues. You know what it means to fail? It means going hungry. It means death. So we don't mess around with flashy bullshit—we only use moves that keep us alive."
His words drove into my brain like nails. I thought of Connor's elegant fighting techniques, of his smugness in the training yard. But Frank was right—those techniques were for the strong, and I wasn't strong.
In the days that followed, I barely rested. I woke before dawn and trained until deep into the night. Frank's demands were harsh to the point of cruelty—every movement had to be repeated hundreds of times until my muscles formed their own memory.
At first, my sparring partners were other students—she-wolves like me who'd come to learn self-defense. Most of them were rogues, or poor souls who'd been abused by their mates. I could see the fear in their eyes, but also the hunger to become stronger.
The first time I sparred, I was nearly knocked flat by a she-wolf twice my size. Her fist slammed into my face and I tasted blood. But I didn't retreat. I used the technique Frank had taught me, aimed for her knee, and kicked hard. She screamed and went down. I'd won.
Frank gave a cold nod from the sidelines. "Not bad," he said, "but not fast enough. Again."
Day by day, I could feel myself getting stronger. The techniques I'd once been proud of were completely dismantled and rebuilt under Frank's training. I learned how to inflict maximum damage with minimum force, how to find openings in an opponent's attacks.
Two weeks later, not a single she-wolf in the gym could last three moves against me.
That day, after I'd taken down my last opponent, Frank approached with a rare hint of a smile. "Looks like," he said, "you need a stronger opponent."
He turned to look at Ivan in the corner. "Boy, you're up."
Ivan looked up, something complex flickering in his eyes. He stood, walked to the center of the training ground, and pulled off his shirt. I saw his body was covered in scars, each one like a medal of combat.
"I won't go easy on you," he said.
"I don't need you to," I replied.
We began.
Ivan's movements were dazzlingly fast. Every punch, every kick was precise and lethal—I could feel the aura of someone battle-hardened. I did everything I could to dodge and counterattack, but he always seemed one step ahead, reading my intentions.
He landed a punch to my ribs and I nearly couldn't breathe from the pain. But I gritted my teeth and drove my elbow hard into his chin. His head snapped back and I swept at his legs.
Ivan staggered but quickly regained his footing. Surprise flashed in his eyes, followed by an even fiercer assault. We grappled across the training ground, sweat mixing with blood, neither willing to yield.
Just when I thought I was going to lose, I noticed something—a hint of hesitation in Ivan's movements. Whenever his attacks were about to hit my vital points, he'd pull back at the last moment.
He was holding back.
My heart stirred. I deliberately left an opening. Ivan took the bait, throwing a punch at my face. Just as he was about to connect, I suddenly shifted sideways, grabbed his wrist, and used the joint lock Frank had taught me to twist it back. Ivan grunted in pain, his body losing balance.
I took the opportunity to kick at his knee. He dropped to one knee. My hand was poised like a blade at his throat. The match was decided.
The training ground fell silent.
Frank slowly approached, his eyes appraising. "Not bad," he said. "You've learned to exploit your opponent's weaknesses."
Ivan stood up, rubbing his wrist, a wry smile on his face. "I lost," he said. "Didn't expect you to improve so fast."
"But it's not enough," Frank's voice suddenly turned cold. "Ivan went easy on you. A real enemy won't."
He walked to the center of the training ground and loosened up his joints. "Come on, girl," he said. "Let me see what you've really learned."
My heart pounded. Frank was a true warrior—his skill far exceeded Ivan's. But I didn't back down. I set my stance and waited for his attack.
Frank moved.
His speed was almost too fast to see. A punch came at my face—I barely dodged it, only to take his knee to my abdomen. I doubled over in pain as his elbow strike descended toward the back of my head.
I desperately rolled forward, evading the killing blow. But Frank followed like a shadow, every attack precise and vicious. I could feel death's breath, could feel that if this were a real fight, I'd already be dead.
But I didn't give up.
I thought of Connor's mockery, of my father's coldness, of that fiancé I'd never met. I couldn't lose.
I began to counterattack. Every punch, every kick with all my strength—I stopped thinking about technique or strategy. I thought about only one thing: survive.
Frank's fist grazed my cheek as my hand chopped toward his neck. He blocked it and I immediately changed tactics, driving my knee toward his abdomen. He stepped back and I pressed forward, grabbing his collar and headbutting toward his nose.
Frank shoved me hard and I crashed to the ground. Blood trickled from my mouth, my ribs felt like they might break, but there wasn't a trace of fear in my eyes.
I looked at Frank. He looked at me.
After a long moment, he slowly nodded. "Enough," he said. "You pass."
I lay on the ground, gasping for breath.
Ivan came over and helped me up. "You're crazy," he said. "Frank never holds back."
"I know," I said, a slight smile tugging at my lips.
Frank walked over and patted my shoulder. "Your eyes," he said, "they remind me of myself when I was young. That unyielding, tenacious will. That determination to keep improving yourself." He paused. "You're going to be a real warrior."
I looked up at him. "I will be," I said. "I definitely will be."
That night, I lay in bed, every part of my body aching. But my heart was filled with an unprecedented calm.
I knew the hunting trial was only two weeks away.
I knew Connor was still stronger than me.
But I also knew I was no longer that girl who only knew how to run away.