Raven's POV :
The training hall was colder than I remembered, but maybe it was just the silence making it feel that way. I stood near the mat, rolling out my wrists, my breath even, my stance relaxed but ready.
He was taking his time.
And I hated that it made me wait.
Not just physically—but mentally. The anticipation built in my bloodstream like a slow-working poison. My thoughts already dancing around the what-ifs of this fight.
Because this wasn't just training.
It was a war neither of us wanted to lose.
I glance at the heavy doors again just as they open with a low creak. My breath stalls.
Kairus Vasiliev walks in like he owns the goddamn air I'm breathing.
Tight black compression shirt and black utility straps cinched tight around his torso ,clinging to his chest and shoulders like a second skin, outlining every carved muscle. His combat pants hung low on his hips, strapped and tactical, but it was the way he moved—like a panther—that made my throat dry.
His silver-white hair's a mess now, tousled like he ran a hand through it after changing, and the veins on his arms pop as he pulls on a pair of leather gloves with quiet focus.
I didn't mean to stare.
But, damn him.
Jesus.
That's not a man. That's a walking sin in tactical gear.
His gaze found mine.
Cold. Calm. Calculated.
But something darker pulsed behind those glacier eyes.
Something hungry.
"Ready, babochka?" His voice is low. Smooth. Almost amused. But his eyes—those glacier blue eyes—don't smile. They never do.
I swallow down the heat rising up my throat and straighten. "Took your sweet time," I said, arms crossed.
"Didn't know you'd be waiting like a storm," he muttered, stepping onto the mat. "Rules?"
"No weapons. First one on the floor loses," I say, cracking my neck. "No crying if I kick your ass."
That earns me a smirk. A real one. Dark and slow, like molasses over a blade.
"You sure about that, sweetheart? "
"Try me."
We didn't waste time.
He came at me fast.
I met him faster.
He's not even trying to hide it.
He wants to break me.
Or maybe…
He wants to be broken.
His fist cut the air; I dodged, countered with a jab straight to his ribs. He twisted away, grabbing my arm, spinning me into a grapple, but I dropped low and broke out with a sharp elbow to his chest.
He threw a leg sweep—I jumped, landed, punched him across the jaw. His head snapped to the side, and when he turned back, he smiled.
The kind of smile you give a worthy opponent.
Or a dangerous addiction.
"You hit like you're angry," he said, breath rough.
"I am angry."
"Why?"
"Because I can't stop thinking about how good you'd look on your knees."
I hadn't meant to say it. Not like that. Not out loud.
His eyes darkened.
He came at me harder.
Faster.
We became fire and thunder—fists flying, bodies crashing, the mat groaning beneath our weight. He blocked my uppercut; I ducked his roundhouse. He slammed into me. I rammed him back.
Every move felt personal.
Every breath, like a dare.
But his hand is on me again—sliding too fast, too confident, grabbing my wrist and yanking me forward.
Our bodies crash.There's no distance now. No space between war and want.
His hand is at my lower back. My palm is flat against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart—steady, strong, and yet… I swear it skips.
His forehead nearly brushes mine.
"Give up yet?" he breathes, voice husky.
My fingers curl in the strap across his chest.
"Not even close."
His hand moves—fast and unrelenting—snapping up to wrap around my throat.
Not choking.
Just holding.
Firm. Dominant. Intentional.
My breath catches, not from fear, but the control in his touch. His thumb presses lightly against my pulse, like he's trying to feel if I'm still holding on… or if I've already started falling.
His mouth lowers to my ear, his voice a guttural growl that slides over my skin like a whip and a worship all at once.
"Ty prinadlezhish' mne, babochka. "
"You belong to me, babochka. "
My breath hitched.
God. The way it rolled off his tongue—rough and possessive—like a vow he'd brand into my skin if I let him.
But I couldn't let him.
Not when he wanted to own me without even knowing me.
Something cracks open in my chest. A jolt of heat rips through me so fierce, I almost forget who the hell I am.
Almost.
But I'm Raven fucking Moreno.
And no one—no one—owns me.
I slammed both palms into his chest and shoved him back. "Youdon't ownme," Ihissed, fury twisting through my ribs. "I don't belong to anyone."
He didn't stumble. He just blinked slowly, as if amused. As if I'd said something cute.
Then he lunged again—and I met him halfway.
We crashed back into the fight, but now the moves blurred. Fists, breath, skin, heat—too tangled to separate. We weren't trying to win anymore. We were starving. For friction. For tension. For anything that'd quiet the hurricane between us.
His knee brushes my thigh—I twist, slam my elbow into his side. He grunts. Grabs my waist, tries to spin me—I hook my leg around his, send us both tumbling to the mat.
He lands with a grunt beneath me.
"You gonna throw a punch?" he asks, voice low.
My hands don't move.
Because I can't.
Because I don't want to.
"You're trembling," he murmurs.
"I'm vibrating," I breathe. "With rage."
"With want," he corrects.
And then—
His grip tightened on my waist; mine fisted the hem of his compression shirt, dragging it up just enough to feel the sculpted heat of his skin.
A sharp inhale. A gasp.
Our mouths collided like we'd been waiting to devour each other.
No hesitation.
No thought.
Just gravity.
It was chaos.
Tongues clashing, teeth grazing, lips crashing over and over like we could bite the restraint right out of each other. I moaned into his mouth as his hands explored, palms skimming my ribs, my back, my hips—like he was trying to memorize the shape of my defiance.
My fingers tangled into his hair. His teeth caught my bottom lip and tugged. My hips rolled forward instinctively, grinding against the hard ridge in his combat pants.
Kairus groaned—low, guttural, like a man at the edge of losing everything.
He lifted me without warning.
Hands strong beneath my thighs, he pulled me against him, wrapping my legs around his hips in one fluid motion. I locked around him on reflex, panting, high off his strength, the friction between us maddening.
His mouth moved down to my jaw, my neck, biting, tasting, claiming.
My nails dug into his shoulders as I gasped, grinding again.
"Fuck—Kairus—"
We were a breath away. One move, one second, and we'd fall.
But then—
He stilled.
His breath trembled against my skin.
Then he pulled back, eyes dark and storming, but unreadable.
"This means nothing," he muttered hoarsely. Like he was trying to convince himself more than me.
He set me down gently.
Turned.
And walked out of the training hall.
Leaving me shaking.
Throbbing.
And burning with the taste of him still on my lips.
My fists clenched at my sides.
Anger flared—sharp and sudden—filling the hollow space he left behind.
Damn him.
Damn his hands. His mouth. His voice in Russian like a spell I should've known better than to fall under.
I hated that he left like that. That he said it meant nothing—when his touch had branded my skin like it meant everything.
But worse?
I hated myself more.
For letting my guard down. For letting him in. For forgetting—even for one second—why I was here.
This wasn't real.
This wasn't love.
This was a contract. A cage. A fucking arrangement forced down my throat in the name of my brother's debt.
And I was the currency.
I breathed out through clenched teeth, pushing the back of my hand across my lips like I could wipe the memory of him away.
But the damage was already done.