Elena’s POV
I don’t know what happened to Damon. One second we were training — punches, kicks, sweat, discipline — and the next?
The man snapped.
Not in the angry, throw-you-across-the-room way. No. In the Damon way.
The touchy, smirky, arrogant bastard kind of way that made it very hard to rember why I was supposed to be mad at him in the first place.
At first, I thought I imagined it.
My roundhouse kick ca fast — clean form, good angle — but instead of blocking like he had a hundred tis before, he caught my leg mid-air. No real effort. No resistance. Just a smooth, infuriating move.
But he didn’t push back.
He held it.
His hand slid down my thigh like he was asuring it, fingers brushing my skin far longer than necessary. A featherlight caress just above my knee, then higher, like he forgot we were training and not starring in so lust-fueled fantasy he was conjuring on the mat.
He let go — slowly — as if peeling himself away was an inconvenience.
I stumbled when my foot hit the floor again, but I masked it with a glare.
"What the hell was that?" I asked, trying not to sound breathless. Failing.
He shrugged, all calm and smug. "Nice form."
Nice form, my ass.
I growled under my breath and lunged again, this ti with a series of quick jabs. His movents were fluid, sure — but he wasn’t blocking like before. He was dodging, like so shadow-walker with all the ti in the world.
And then ca the worst part.
Another kick. High. Fast. Lethal.
Caught.
Again.
This ti, he didn’t let go imdiately.
His thumb brushed the side of my calf, trailing upward with a kind of reverence that was criminal in a training room. I could feel my skin burn where he touched — not from exertion. From him. From the heat I’d been trying to kill all day and bury under layers of anger and spandex.
"Damon," I snapped.
His eyes t mine, and gods, they were smoldering. Not with amusent — but with sothing darker. Hungrier.
"Problem?" he asked, voice low, like we weren’t surrounded by punching bags and training mats but tangled between sheets instead.
"Yeah," I hissed, jerking my leg back and nearly falling. "You’re not taking this seriously."
"Oh, I’m taking everything very seriously," he murmured.
And then — he ca closer.
He didn’t grab. Didn’t lunge. He stalked, like a predator who knew the prey wasn’t running anymore — she was waiting.
"Wanna know what your problem is?" he asked, chest nearly brushing mine now.
"No," I lied.
He leaned down, breath brushing my ear. "You keep throwing punches when you know damn well you want to pin you again."
My heart slamd against my ribs.
Asshole.
God, I hated how good he was at reading . At pressing buttons I didn’t know were wired to every nerve in my body.
I pushed him away — hard — palms on his chest, trying to create distance.
But he only smirked. "Touché."
I glared, turning to reset my stance — but I wasn’t blind. I saw the way his eyes dropped, tracing the arch of my back, lingering on the sway of my hips as I moved.
I wore this outfit to piss him off. And now?
I think I pissed myself off.
Because my stupid traitorous body wasn’t angry anymore.
It was buzzing.
And Damon knew it.
He always did.
I was sweating now — soaked through and still nowhere near landing a damn punch to that smug, insufferable face of his.
And I wanted to. Gods, I needed to.
Not because I hated him — though, let’s be honest, sotis it felt like I did — but because it would’ve been so satisfying to watch that arrogant smirk twitch when my fist actually connected.
But no.
It wasn’t happening.
To him, this wasn’t a fight. It was a ga. A dance he was choreographing with maddening ease, and I was just the out-of-sync partner trying to keep up while he spun circles around .
Every ti I lunged — he was there.
Every ti I feinted — he already knew.
It was like he could feel my movents before I made them, like he was always two seconds ahead, reading my mind and laughing at the chaos inside it.
It wasn’t fun anymore.
It just wasn’t fair.
He wasn’t even breaking a sweat.
anwhile, I was dripping, panting, flushed head to toe — not entirely from exertion — and trying not to scream in frustration. Not just because he was impossible to hit, but because he kept touching during the spars. Little flicks, brushes, grips that lasted too long, fingers tracing places they had no business being during combat.
I didn’t know whether to throw a punch or throw myself at him.
Worse?
He knew it.
The bastard was enjoying every second of it — watching unravel, watching miss, stumble, burn.
I swung wide — too wide — and he caught my wrist midair. Effortlessly. Like he’d been waiting for it.
He didn’t twist it. Didn’t shove back.
No. That would’ve been sporting.
Instead, he held it. His fingers curling slowly around mine, a grip that was strong, possessive... and far too intimate for the damn training mat.
"You’re off balance," he murmured, voice low, sinful.
"I’m fine," I snapped, trying to yank my arm back.
His grip tightened slightly — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind who had the upper hand.
"Frustrated, little Luna?"
I t his eyes — dark, stormy, and so damn pleased with himself.
"I swear to the goddess, Damon—"
"What?" he interrupted, stepping closer again, our wrists still locked together. "Gonna hit ? Gonna kiss ? You’re shaking too much to tell the difference."
That did it.
I ripped my hand from his and turned away, grabbing a towel from the bench like it could mop up the heat pouring off .
Gods, I hated him.
"Giving up too soon?"
His voice was mocking. Teasing. The way only Damon knew how to do — equal parts smug and sexy, laced with just enough challenge to make twitch.
I didn’t answer. Too angry to. Too flushed. Too tired of chasing after him and my own self-respect at the sa damn ti.
I turned away again, grabbing the towel harder than necessary and dabbing it across my forehead like it was his face.
"Co on. Wait—wait, I’ll give you an advantage."
That stopped .
I paused mid-wipe, slowly turning my head over my shoulder.
His eyes lit up with victory — like he knew exactly which strings to pull to keep in the ring. He always knew.
"I’ll blindfold myself," he said, one eyebrow cocking as he pulled off his vest in one fluid, sinfully slow motion.
Of course he had to remove sothing. Of course he had to do it like that. Just to make sure my brain short-circuited on the spot.
"What?" I blinked, forcing myself to keep my eyes up. Gods, he was built like a vengeance story — all shadow and muscle and wicked temptation.
"I’ll blindfold myself," he repeated, spinning the vest between his fingers. "You get free shots. No vision. No reading your body. Just instincts."
I crossed my arms. "What’s the catch?"
"No catch." His smirk deepened. "Unless you count making fun of you for the rest of your life if you still can’t hit ."
My fingers twitched. He knew exactly what he was doing.
"You’re insufferable," I muttered.
"And you’re stalling," he countered, tying the vest tight across his eyes like so smug, half-naked training god.
"You ready?" I asked, suspicious.
"Always."
I circled him once.
Then again.
He stood still, posture loose, cocky, like he wasn’t even trying to focus. Like he didn’t need his eyes to destroy .
"Okay," I said under my breath. "Let’s see how good your instincts really are."
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