By lunchtime, Celine's muscles ached from the morning's intense training. She found a quiet spot under a large oak tree near the edge of the training field, the grass soft beneath her and a cool breeze whispering through the branches above. All she wanted was five minutes of peace—a moment to breathe, to eat, and to be alone.
Just as she unwrapped her sandwich, she heard footsteps and then a familiar voice followed. Smug and unwelcome.
"Didn't think you had it in you, sweetheart," Reese sneers, dropping down beside her without so much as a greeting. His grin stretched too wide, eyes scanning her like she was something on a menu.
Celine stiffened. Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing, choosing instead to focus on her food. Maybe if she ignored him, he’d go away.
But Reese never took a hint.
"You were impressive this morning," he said, voice low and oily. "But I think you've got a lot more potential than just sparring, you know?"
She felt him inch closer, and her stomach churned. Her appetite vanished.
Reese leaned in, his breath uncomfortably warm against her ear. "You're free now," he murmured, the words slithering under her skin. His hand landed on her shoulder, heavy and possessive. "Leon’s done with you, right? That means you're open. We should spend some time together. Get to know each other better."
Celine's breath caught. Her muscles, sore just moments ago, tensed like coiled wire. She shrugged off his hand, sharp and fast. “I am not interested,” she said, voice flat, laced with warning.
He laughed—soft, condescending. “No need to play hard to get,” he said, and then his hand dropped to her thigh. His fingers pressed against the fabric of her pants, slow, deliberate. “Now that Leon has cast you aside, I’m here to cheer you up. You should be grateful someone like me’s even paying attention.”
Her heart pounded, not from fear alone, but fury. Her mouth went dry, her hands curling into fists. She hated how her body froze, hated the flush rising to her cheeks—not from attraction but from the visceral, burning humiliation of it. The helplessness. The invasion. Her mind screamed to slap him, to shove him away, but her limbs betrayed her.
Reese’s laughter died midsentence.
His eyes flicked up, narrowing just slightly. The hand on Celine’s arm went still. Across the grass, shadows stretched longer, as if the light itself had backed away.
Leon was standing there.
No footsteps. No warning. Just him—still as stone, watching from only a few feet away.
He didn’t raise his voice.
“Move your hand,” he said, quiet and clear, every word sharp enough to draw blood.
Reese’s fingers twitched. His jaw tightened. He held his ground for a second too long, like he was weighing the risk.
Then Leon took a single step forward.
The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Reese flinched, his hand yanking back as if scorched. He scrambled to his feet, mumbling something low and bitter under his breath. He didn’t look at Celine again. His eyes barely met Leon’s before he turned and stalked off, shoulders stiff with fury.
Leon didn’t move until Reese was gone.
Then he turned to Celine. His expression didn’t soften, not exactly, but something in it eased. He stood between her and the rest of the world, silent and still.
“Next time,” he said, voice low, “break his fingers.”