Dorian's private gym occupies the entire basement level of his building. Mats cover the floor. Weapons mount the walls in precise rows. A heavy bag hangs in the corner, leather cracked and worn from decades of punishment.
I stand in the center wearing athletic clothes Dorian bought me. Black leggings. Gray tank top. My feet are bare against the mat. I roll my shoulders. Try to look confident.
Dorian circles me slowly. Assessing.
"Strength and speed mean nothing if you don't know how to use them," he says. "Most fledglings rely on brute force. Get themselves killed by older vampires who actually know how to fight."
"So teach me."
He moves into a defensive stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees soft. Weight balanced. "Mirror me."
I copy his position. My feet feel wrong. Too far apart. Or not far enough.
"Your hips are too high." He steps behind me. His hands find my waist. He adjusts the angle. "And your shoulders are tense. Drop them."
I try. He corrects me again. Then again. By the fourth adjustment, frustration crawls up my spine.
"Throw a punch," he says.
I do. The movement is technically correct. I've seen enough action movies to know the basics. But there's no power behind it.
Dorian catches my fist easily. Holds it.
"What am I doing wrong?" I yank my hand back.
"Everything." He steps back. "You're thinking too much."
"I need to think to do this right." I snap back.
"No. You need to stop thinking and just move." He gestures for me to try again.
I set my jaw. Come at him again. This time there's more commitment but I'm still telegraphing every move. He sidesteps. Sweeps my legs. I hit the mat hard.
I spring back up immediately.
"Again," he says.
I do. Same result. My perfectionism makes me cautious. Makes me think through every movement instead of trusting my body.
Dorian stops mid-motion. Shakes his head.
"This isn't working." I back away from him. "I can't do this."
"Yes, you can."
"No. I can't." I head for the door. "We're done."
He moves. Not fast enough to blur. Just fast enough to reach the door before me. His hand flattens against it above my head.
"We're not done," he says.
"Get out of my way."
"No."
Anger flares hot in my chest. I shove him. Hard. He rocks back half a step.
"There," he says. "Use that."
"Use what?"
"The anger. Stop controlling it. Use it."
I come at him again. Fists flying. He deflects every blow with minimal effort. Sidesteps. Blocks. His face stays calm while mine burns with rage.
"You're fighting like a human," he says.
The words hit like gasoline on fire. I launch myself at him. My shoulder drives into his chest. He staggers back. I sweep his legs and he goes down.
For half a second I think I won.
Then he flips our position. Pins me to the mat. His weight presses me down. One hand controls both my wrists above my head.
"Better," he says. "But not good enough."
I pull him down like I'm going to kiss him. His guard drops for a fraction of a second. I bring my knee up hard. Plant my foot in his stomach. Kick.
He flies backward. Crashes into the rack on the far wall.
I roll to my feet. "Good enough now?"
He stands. Brushes himself off. "Careful, Nora."
"Why? Afraid I'll actually hurt you?"
He moves. This time it is a blur. One second he's across the room. The next his hand is around my throat. His thumb rests against my pulse. I can see him holding back.
"Come on," I say, challenging him. "I'm not made of glass."
But his hand releases my throat. Slides to cup my jaw instead. "But you're still breakable."
I kiss him. He responds immediately. His hands find my waist. Pull me closer. I bite his lip again. Harder this time. He groans into my mouth.
We break apart. Both breathing hard.
"Again," he says.
"Fighting or kissing?"
"Both."
I come at him. He meets me halfway. We crash together. His back hits the mat. I follow him down. My hands pin his wrists this time. He doesn't fight it. Just watches me with those dark, hungry eyes.
"You're letting me win," I say.
"Am I?" His hips buck up. I lose my balance. He flips us again. Pins me.
"Get off me."
"Make me."
I snarl and try to twist free again. He doesn't budge.
"I said get off."
He releases me. Steps back.
I come up swinging.
This time I don't think. I just move. My fist connects with his jaw hard enough to snap his head to the side. His lip splits. Blood wells dark against his mouth.
We both freeze.
The air between us changes instantly. My eyes lock on the blood. His eyes lock on me. Neither of us moves.
Then he's on me. Backing me up until I hit the wall. His mouth finds mine and the kiss tastes like copper and hunger. I bite his already split lip harder. He makes a sound low in his throat. My hands fist in his shirt. His hands frame my face.
It's not gentle. Nothing about this is gentle.
We break apart just long enough to breathe. Then I'm pulling him back down. We slide to the mat together. His weight presses me into the cushioning. My nails find the back of his neck. His mouth moves to my throat.
A phone buzzes across the room.
Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession.
We ignore it. His mouth finds my throat. My pulse jumps under his lips.
The phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
"Fuck," he says quietly.
He pulls back. Breathing hard. Forehead resting against mine. The phone won't stop.
He closes his eyes. Curses again. Reaches for my phone on the bench and checks the screen. His expression goes carefully blank.
He shows me the call log. Seventeen missed calls. All from the concierge.
"He's called you seventeen times," Dorian says.