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It's become a ritual for me, these daily training sessions. A way to channel my frustrations, my fears, my ever-growing doubts into something physical, something tangible. With a blade in my hand and an opponent before me, the world narrows to a single, crystalline point, and everything else falls away.
At least, that's how it usually is. But today...today is different.
I feel his presence before I see him, a prickling awareness that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I spin, my sword coming up in a defensive stance...and find myself face to face with Grok.
He's dressed for training, in a simple tunic and breeches that cling to his massive frame like a second skin. His amber eyes are intense, focused, as he takes in my sweat-slicked skin and heaving chest.
"Warlord," I say, my voice carefully neutral even as my heart kicks into a gallop. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
His lips quirk in that now-familiar half-smile, half-smirk. "I thought I might join you today," he rumbles, stepping forward into the training ring. "It's been too long since I've crossed blades with a worthy opponent."
I raise an eyebrow, torn between annoyance and a traitorous thrill of excitement. "And you think I'm worthy?" I challenge, my grip tightening on my sword hilt.
He chuckles, a deep, rich sound that vibrates through me like a physical caress. "Oh, I know you are, little blade. I've seen you fight, remember?"
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my body reacts to his nearness, to the heat and power radiating off him in waves. "Very well," I say, lifting my chin. "Shall we dance, then?"
His grin widens, his eyes flashing with anticipation. "I thought you'd never ask."
And with that, he lunges, his massive axe whistling through the air toward my head.
I duck and roll, coming up in a crouch and sweeping my blade at his legs. He leaps back with surprising agility for a creature his size, then comes at me again, the axe a blur of silver and iron.
We trade blows for what feels like hours, the world narrowing to the space between us, to the clash of steel and the rasp of labored breathing. He's incredibly strong, each impact shuddering up my arms and rattling my teeth. But he's fast, too, his movements fluid and precise, his eyes never leaving mine.
It's exhilarating and terrifying all at once, dancing on the edge of violence with this male who both attracts and repels me. Part of me wants to lay down my sword and submit to his dominance, to bare my throat and let him claim me as his own.
But another part, the part that's the Red Blade, the shield of Thornhall, rebels against the very idea. I am no man's plaything, no prize to be won or trophy to be claimed. I am a warrior, a leader, a defender of my people.
Even if my traitorous heart sometimes whispers otherwise.
As if sensing my inner turmoil, Grok presses his advantage, his axe coming down in a punishing arc that sends me staggering back. I recover quickly, but not quickly enough—his next blow knocks my sword from my hand, sending it skittering across the packed earth of the training ground.
I scramble after it, but he's there before me, kicking it out of reach with a casual flick of his foot. I look up at him, panting, my heart slamming against my ribs.
"Do you yield?" he asks, his voice a low, resonant growl that sends shivers down my spine.
I bare my teeth in a defiant snarl. "Never," I hiss, even as I know it's futile. He has me at his mercy, disarmed and vulnerable, and we both know it.
But to my surprise, he doesn't press his advantage. Instead, he reaches down and hauls me to my feet, his grip firm but gentle on my arm.
"Good," he rumbles, his eyes glinting with approval. "A true warrior never surrenders, even in the face of certain defeat."
I stare at him, confused and wary. "What game are you playing, Grok?" I demand, my voice rough with exertion and emotion. "Why did you really come here today?"
He regards me for a long, charged moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reaches out and brushes a strand of sweat-dampened hair from my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek.
"I came to teach you," he says quietly, his gaze holding mine. "To show you how to wield an ogre weapon, and to fight like one of us."
I blink, startled. "Why?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "Why would you want to teach me your ways, make me stronger? I'm your enemy, remember?"
He smiles, a slow, knowing curve of his lips. "Are you?" he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Or are you something else entirely, Lily Thornwood?"
I shiver at his touch, at the way my name rolls off his tongue like a caress. "I...I don't know," I confess, my voice trembling. "I don't know what I am anymore, Grok. You've turned everything upside down, made me question everything I thought I knew."
He nods, his expression softening with understanding. "I know," he rumbles, his hand cupping my face now. "Believe me, Lily, I know. You've done the same to me."
I stare up at him, my heart in my throat. "What are we doing?" I whisper, my voice cracking with emotion. "What is this thing between us, Grok? It's madness, it's impossible, it's..."
