Chapter 162 – The Weight of His Gaze
Jace
The training ring echoes with the thud of fists on pads and the sharp bark of orders. Young wolves move like a tide, some too eager, some too lazy, all of them thinking they’ll be ready when war comes. They aren’t.
“Again,” I snap, circling. “Guard up, weight on your back foot, eyes forward. Don’t stare at your hands, stare at your opponent.”
They obey, more or less. The trainees are keen enough, but discipline is learned through repetition, and I grind them until muscle memory takes the place of distraction. In war, distraction is death.
But my own distraction is elsewhere.
Hazel.
She’s on the far side of the ring, working drills with a partner, sweat slicking her skin, hair tied back in a rough knot that leaves strands clinging to her cheeks.
She moves with an intensity that would be reckless if it weren’t so precise, every strike sharp, every pivot grounded. She’s not a recruit anymore. She’s earned her place among my warriors. She moves like a wolf ready to tear out throats.
My eyes should move past her. I should be watching the whole ring, cataloging every flaw, every weakness. Instead, I watch the way her body shifts with each movement, the play of muscle in her arms, the way her leather pants cling when she bends, stretching tight over the curve of her ass. My wolf stirs, restless, hungry, baring its teeth at me.
I clamp down hard.
Focus. She’s your soldier. She’s under your command. Nothing else.
But want doesn’t obey orders.
Hazel drops low, rolls under a strike, and when she rises, chest heaving, her mouth parted, all I can see is the shape of it. The memory of her name in my throat. The fantasy of her mouth beneath mine, against me, taking me. I drag a hand across my jaw, scowl, and bark an order louder than necessary.
“Hazel! Again. Faster this time. You’re holding back.”
She whips her head toward me, eyes flashing. “I’m not holding back.”
“Then prove it,” I bite out. “Ten more reps.”
She squares her shoulders, jaw tight, and launches back into the drill, each strike sharper than the last. I know I’m pushing her harder than the others. I know they’re noticing. But I can’t stop myself. It’s easier to cover hunger with cruelty than with silence. Discipline as disguise.
Her partner stumbles under the force of her blows, nearly knocked off balance, and I nod once, sharp. “Better.”
Her gaze flicks to me, quick and unreadable. Then she turns away, wiping sweat from her brow, leaving me staring at the long line of her back, the flex of muscle as she moves. My chest feels too tight, my body caught between command and craving.
By the time the session ends, I’m strung taut as a bow. Wolves file out, chattering and laughing, some limping from bruises I told them to earn. Hazel lingers, stretching at the edge of the ring.
When she bends forward, palms pressed to the dirt, her pants tighten again and my wolf surges, savage with want. I force myself to look away, jaw clenched until it aches.
I don’t speak to her. If I open my mouth, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Instead, I leave, boots heavy on the dirt.
The solitude of my quarters doesn’t help. It makes it worse.
The silence presses in. I strip off my shirt and pace, muscles twitching with restless energy. My mind replays every moment in the ring. Hazel’s eyes sparking at my command, the way her chest rose and fell, the way sweat slid down her throat. The memory is sharp and irresistible.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, dig my fingers into my thighs, and snarl. “Stop it.”
But I can’t.
The fantasy claws at me again. Hazel beneath me, her leather peeled away, her mouth opening on a gasp as I press her down. My wolf growls approval, and my body reacts before my mind can chain it, blood rushing hot, cock hardening against my will. I slam my eyes shut, but it doesn’t matter. The images are already there, vivid and merciless.
She bends the way she did in the ring, only this time it’s for me. My hands on her hips, pulling her back, pressing in deep until she cries my name. Her lips wrapped around me, slippery and perfect, every clipped command I’ve ever given turned into ragged moans.
I drag a hand over my face, furious with myself. She’s under my command. She trusts me. And I’m imagining her spread and begging, using the memory of her strength to fuel my weakness. Disgust curdles with the lust, a bitter mix that makes me want to punch the wall.
I stand and start pacing again. The room feels smaller with every step. My wolf is restless too, snarling at me for denying what it wants. Hazel’s scent clings to me, imagined or not, filling my head until it’s all I can breathe.
I stop at the window, brace my hands on the sill, and stare out at the night. She’s out there somewhere, maybe already asleep, maybe still awake, maybe, gods help me, thinking of me too.
The thought is poison. The thought is fire.
I bow my head, close my eyes, force my breathing to slow. This is not who I am. I’ve never allowed my discipline and control to slip. That’s what I’m known for. My steady nature, my calm in the face of the worst storms.
But Hazel is different. The weight of her gaze lingers even when she isn’t here, burning against my skin, driving me to impossibly impulsive thoughts.
I tell myself it’s nothing. I tell myself it has to be nothing. But my wolf knows better.
The night drags, hours marked by the steady beat of my heart and the restless shift of my body. Sleep won’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I see her.
Hazel gritting her teeth in defiance, Hazel’s chest rising with breathless effort, Hazel looking at me like she wants to tear me apart or throw herself at me. The images twist together until I can’t separate them.
I try doing drills in my head. Sword forms, knife routines, anything to force her out. It doesn’t work. My mind turns the hilt into her waist, the swing into her hips, the strike into her mouth. I curse under my breath and lie back, staring at the ceiling beams.
My wolf whispers what I won’t let myself say. She’s yours. She should be yours. It would be easy to take her, claim her, end this torment. But that isn’t the man I am. That isn’t the commander I was taught to be.
I clench my jaw until it hurts. If I touch her, if I let myself slip even once, there would be no going back. Not for me. And gods, I want it anyway. I want it until my hands shake with the need of it.
I press my palms over my eyes and whisper, raw and useless, “Hazel.”
Her name tastes like sin in my mouth, like surrender, like the sweetest most decadent treat imaginable.
And for a long time I just lie there in the dark, breathing hard, caught between fury at myself and the kind of longing that feels like it will tear me apart from the inside out.