Chapter 169
The sun was high by the time training began, its warmth stretching over Alpha Oliver’s pack grounds like a golden net. The field buzzed with anticipation—junior ambassadors clustered in groups, stretching, murmuring, laughing. Everyone wore the official navy-blue training uniforms, the crest of unity stitched over the heart. I adjusted mine, my fingers brushing the fabric near the insignia.
Anna stood beside me, her dark curls twisted into a high bun, the corners of her black lips twitching as she took in the scenery. “This place,” she muttered, “is like a werewolf summer camp.”
I chuckled under my breath. “Maybe we’ll toast marshmallows after combat drills.”
“Only if they serve them with blood orange tea,” she said with a dramatic sigh.
Then a hush fell over the field like a sudden breeze, heads turning in a slow wave. I followed their gaze—and there he was.
Alpha Jeremiah.
Dressed in black, his fitted shirt hugged the planes of his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked carved from shadow and fire. His jaw was sharp, expression unreadable as his gaze swept over the crowd. I couldn’t tell if he saw me, or if I was just another silhouette in his periphery.
But my heart knew. It thrummed louder. Faster.
His presence pulled every nerve in my body taut. I fought the urge to smooth my hair or fix my stance. He shouldn’t still affect me like this—but stars, he did.
“Is that Alpha Jeremiah?” Anna leaned closer, whispering. “Why do I feel like he’s about to whip us all into submission with a single glare?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I was too focused on the way he moved—confident, fluid, commanding.
“Today’s session,” one of the older warriors announced, “will be led by Alpha Jeremiah himself. Basic self-defense, agility, and hand-to-hand drills. Pair up.”
Everyone scattered, eager to look competent. Anna and I paired naturally. She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t go easy on me just because I look like a haunted Victorian doll.”
I laughed. “I’d be stupid to.”
We sparred briefly, her movements quick and precise, until another command rang out, “One-on-one demos with Alpha Jeremiah. Step forward when your name is called.”
Names echoed across the field. A few volunteers went up—Jeremiah barely spoke as he demonstrated footwork and counters, swift and efficient. His body moved with lethal grace, a panther in human skin. Every so often, his gaze swept the crowd, cold and calculating.
Then I heard it.
“Astrid.”
My feet moved before I could hesitate, the world narrowing into sharp focus. Whispers rustled behind me—nothing specific, just the buzz of curiosity. I stepped onto the mat, heart pounding against my ribcage like it wanted out.
Jeremiah turned toward me. Our eyes locked.
Still, no words.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just motioned me forward with a flick of his hand. I took my stance.
He lunged.
I countered.
Our bodies collided in movement, the air between us charged and crackling. I was hyper-aware of everything—his scent, clean and wild like pine and thunder; the brush of his fingers against my wrists as he demonstrated a grip break; the subtle heat that pulsed between our chests as we circled each other.
He struck again, and I blocked. His palm grazed my waist. A touch that lingered. Not long enough to be inappropriate—but long enough to burn.
No one else seemed to notice.
But I felt it. The tremor it sent through me.
We fell into a rhythm, a dance neither of us choreographed but both instinctively knew. My body remembered his before my mind gave it permission. Each move drew us closer, until I could feel the warmth of his breath near my ear, the faintest brush of his chest against mine when we locked up.
My thigh grazed his hip. His hand slid along my back as he twisted me around. His touch wasn’t gentle—but it wasn’t cruel either.
It was control. Power. Emotion wrapped in silence.
I met his gaze again. His eyes weren’t cold now.
They were burning.
His jaw flexed, and for the smallest second, I saw it—desire, coiled like a serpent just beneath his calm surface. Our bodies paused, mere inches apart, breath ragged, tension thrumming like a live wire.
Then he stepped back.
“Training is over,” he said, loud and flat.
Confusion rippled through the crowd. A few people glanced at each other, shrugged. Anna stared at me, brow raised high. I stepped off the mat, throat dry, skin flushed.
Jeremiah turned on his heel and walked away without another word.
The moment shattered.
Anna jogged up beside me. “Okay, what the hell was that?”
I wiped my hands on my pants, trying to cool my blood. “What?”
“You and Alpha Shadowbrood back there,” she said. “That wasn’t a sparring match. That was… some kind of mating ritual or deeply repressed enemies-to-lovers scene.”
I let out a weak laugh. “You’re imagining things.”
“Sure.” She grinned. “And I’m the next Alpha Queen.”
I didn’t answer.
Because even if she was joking—she wasn’t wrong.
The silence between Jeremiah and me spoke louder than any words. His touch had said everything—anger, hurt, longing. He wanted to hate me. He wanted to forget. But his body betrayed him.
Just like mine did.
Back at the dorms, I changed slowly, replaying every second of the session. My skin still tingled where he’d touched me, my muscles sore in a way that felt intimate.
Anna sprawled on her bed, chewing on the end of a pen. “So… hypothetical,” she began, “say someone had history with a hot, emotionally constipated Alpha—would it be wise to tell her new roommate about it, or let her piece it together while watching the sexual tension unfold like a slow-burn romance?”
I threw a pillow at her. She caught it with a laugh.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Dinner was a mix of casual chatter and light banter. I met more ambassadors, shared laughs, and tried to focus on the summit, on my goals, on making my father proud.
But every time I closed my eyes, I felt him.
Every breath, every look, every touch still lingered.
He hadn’t said a word to me. Not really. But he didn’t have to.
His silence screamed.
And I wasn’t finished listening.
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