Emilia
I wake up alone and still furious, which is becoming my default setting apparently. Every muscle aches—not from exercise, from spending the night wound tighter than a fucking piano wire because Vincent Black can’t commit to either protecting me or destroying me.
Pick a lane, asshole.
Shower helps wash off the physical reminder of last night’s almost-kiss, but the tension? That shit’s permanent now. Embedded in my DNA like some kind of sexual trauma I’ll be explaining to therapists for decades.
Outside my door: clipboard. Because of course there’s a clipboard.
Schedule reads like something designed by a sadistic military academy dropout:
0600: Wake-up
0630: Morning drills
0730: Breakfast check-in
0900: Physical training
1200: Meal supervision
1400: Reading period (approved materials only)
1500: Screen time (1 hour maximum)
1600: No outgoing messages
“What is this, fucking prison?” I mutter to the empty hallway.
Nobody answers, which feels about right for my life lately.
I find him barefoot on the combat mat in the center of his sunken living room, dressed in black like he’s cosplaying Death incarnate. Silent. Waiting. Looking like every dark fantasy I’ve ever had and immediately felt guilty about.
“You’ll learn to defend yourself,” he says without looking up. “Since you can’t follow basic commands.”
I roll my eyes hard enough to see my own brain. “Fantastic. Prison bootcamp.”
But I obey. Because apparently my rebellion has limits, and those limits involve Vincent looking dangerous in tight black clothing.
The moment we step onto the mat, Vincent moves—no warning, no warm-up. He grabs my wrist, twists, and I’m flat on my back before I can even think. His palm presses to my shoulder, holding me down just long enough to make a point.
“Again,” he says.
I sit up slowly, jaw tight. “You could try explaining things before tossing me like a bag of laundry.”
“You’ll learn faster this way.”
We reset. He moves in again, slower this time, showing the mechanics of a reversal. I try to follow, but he blocks it effortlessly and turns me with one sharp motion. My breath leaves me in a grunt as I land on my knees.
“You want to survive close contact?” he says near my ear. “You need to get comfortable with it first.”
His hands adjust my stance again. Firm. Steady. Impersonal.
Except nothing about this feels impersonal.
“Comfortable isn’t the word I’d use,” I mutter.
“Uncomfortable people die slower,” he replies. “They hesitate.”
“You ever get tired of hearing your own voice?”
“No,” he says flatly. “But you get tired quickly. That’s a bigger problem.”
Before I can shoot back, he sweeps my leg. I hit the mat hard. His body hovers above mine, hands pinning my wrists down.
His face is calm. Too calm.
“You’re reckless,” he says quietly. “That’s what gets people killed.”
I shift beneath him, breath catching. “You could’ve just said ‘be careful’ like a normal person.”
“You wouldn’t have listened.”
“You think this is helping?”
His eyes flick to my mouth for half a second—so quick I almost miss it.
“I think this is the only language you respect.”
He lets go of my wrists, stands.
I lie there a beat too long before pushing myself up. “And what language is that?”
He steps back. “Pressure. Contact. Consequence.”
I stare at him, chest still heaving. “You forgot humiliation.”
A pause.
Then, without emotion: “You’ll thank me if someone ever tries to hurt you again.”
I snort. “Right. Because this feels exactly like surviving an assault.”
That gets him. His jaw tightens.
He crouches in front of me, face close.
“This is the part where you learn to take back control,” he says, low. “And you’d better start soon—because I won’t always be there to pull someone off you.”
It ignites me. Makes me furious. Makes me wet. Makes me want to either murder him or fuck him, preferably both.
“You’re flushed,” he observes with that maddening deadpan delivery. “Out of breath already?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snarl, but I’m aching in places that have nothing to do with physical exercise.
Drills escalate. Vincent forces me to use actual strength, pushes me past comfortable limits into territory where sweat and frustration and proximity become this toxic cocktail of want. I’m panting, trembling, still can’t shake how intimate his corrections feel.
Every adjustment of my form feels like seduction. Every pin feels like a promise. Every time he demonstrates a hold, I’m hyperaware of his body against mine, the way his breathing stays perfectly controlled while mine goes to shit.
I finally collapse onto the mat, face flushed, arms shaking like I’ve been electrocuted.
“Done?” he asks.
I flip him off. “Fuck off.”
He walks away without another word, leaving me sprawled on expensive padding feeling like I just survived some kind of erotic torture session masquerading as education.
***
Later, alone in my sterile room, I stare at my reflection. Angry and aroused and completely fed up with this psychological warfare bullshit. My face is still flushed, hair still damp with sweat, and I look exactly like what I am: a girl losing her mind over a man who won’t touch her properly.
I lie in bed, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints, body remembering every single place Vincent’s hands corrected my form. Every grip, every adjustment, every moment of contact that felt like electricity and promises he won’t keep.
Fuck this.
This time, I don’t knock.
Walk into his room wearing nothing but a black tank top and lace panties, because subtlety is apparently not my strong suit.
Vincent’s at his desk, back to me, probably reading threat assessments or whatever other work psychopaths do at midnight.
“Tell me to leave,” I say, voice steadier than I feel.
“Leave.” His voice is completely unreadable, which is somehow worse than anger would be.
I don’t move.
Instead, I kneel. Slow, deliberate, like I’m making some kind of religious offering except the god I’m worshipping specializes in control and denial.
My eyes burn into his back as my voice shakes with honesty.
“I don’t want to feel safe. I want to feel you.”