The sound pulls me from sleep—rhythmic, violent, like someone's beating the walls down. My body recognizes it before my mind does: flesh against leather, controlled rage finding release.
I slip from bed, bare feet silent on cold marble as I follow the sound through wings of the house I haven't dared explore.
The training room door is cracked open, spilling harsh fluorescent light into the hallway. I stop breathing at what I see inside.
Cassian, shirtless and glistening with sweat, is destroying a heavy bag with surgical precision. Each punch lands exactly where the last one did, turning leather into submission.
His body is a contradiction—beautiful and terrible, carved muscle decorated with scars that tell stories I'll never hear. A knife wound across his ribs. Bullet holes that healed wrong. A burn mark on his shoulder blade shaped like a brand.
This is what monsters look like under their suits.
He flows from the bag to the speed bag, his hands blurring into rhythm. Then to the knives on the wall, pulling three and throwing them in succession. They land in a perfect line down the target's throat.
He hasn't looked at me once, but when he speaks, his voice carries perfectly. "Enjoying the show?"
Heat floods my face, but I don't retreat. "I didn't know the gym had this section."
"This isn't the gym." He pulls himself up on a bar, muscles rippling with each rep. "That's for show. This is the training room. For people who need to be strong, not just look it."
He drops, immediately flowing into push-ups, and I can't look away from the play of muscle and scar tissue across his back. Can't stop wondering what those scars would feel like under my fingers.
Stop. He's your captor, not your—
"Did you need something, princess?" He's on his feet now, grabbing a towel but not using it, just letting sweat continue to trace paths down his chest. "Or are you just here for the view?"
The challenge in his voice decides me. I enter the room properly, my silk nightgown suddenly feeling like nothing. His eyes track down my body once, fast, before returning to my face with an intensity that makes my skin burn.
"Teach me." The words come out steadier than I feel.
He stops toweling his neck. "Teach you what?"
I walk to the wall of weapons, touch a knife that looks less murderous than the others. "How to fight. How to defend myself."
"No."
"No?" I turn to face him. "Just no?"
"You're not built for violence." His voice is flat, dismissive. "Soft hands, soft life. You'd break the first time someone hit back."
Rage, hot and familiar, floods through me. "Everyone in my life has used my helplessness against them. My father. Aaron. You."
Something shifts in his expression—surprise maybe, or respect. He studies me for a long moment, and I refuse to fidget under his gaze even though every inch of my skin feels electric.
"Fine." He crosses to me in three strides, and suddenly he's too close, his bare chest inches from my back. "But we do this my way."
His hand covers mine on the knife handle, adjusting my grip. The heat of him surrounds me, and I can smell him—sweat and soap and something dark that makes my stomach clench.
"First rule," his voice rumbles against my ear, "never hold a weapon you're not prepared to use."
"I'm prepared."
His laugh is soft, dangerous. "You think you are. There's a difference."
He teaches me stance first, and every adjustment requires his hands on me.
Fingers on my wrist to show rotation. Palms on my hips to adjust position, burning through the thin silk. His thigh between mine to demonstrate balance, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from making a sound.
"Your body wants to protect itself," he says, still pressed against my back. "You have to override that instinct."
My body wants something else entirely right now.
When he demonstrates a defensive move, he spins me suddenly, pins me against the mirrored wall. We're both breathing hard, but not from exertion. His face is inches from mine, and I can see gold flecks in his blue eyes I never noticed before.
"In real life, they'll be this close," he murmurs, his breath ghosting across my lips. "Closer. You can't freeze just because you can feel their heartbeat."
I can feel his heartbeat. Racing against my chest where we're pressed together.
"I'm not freezing," I manage.
"No?" His hand slides up to bracket my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. "Your pulse says otherwise."
"That's not fear."
The words slip out before I can stop them. His pupils dilate, and for a moment I think he's going to kiss me. Then he steps back, leaving me cold against the mirror.
"Again," he says. "This time, actually try to hurt me."
We work through basic strikes, blocks, how to break a hold. Every move requires contact, and the space between us crackles with electricity. When I finally manage to break his grip using the technique he showed me, his smile is pure pride.
"Good. Now with the knife."
He guides me through the motion again, but I overcorrect, and the blade slices across his forearm. Not deep, but blood immediately wells up, dripping onto the mat.
"Oh God." I drop the knife, reaching for him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He catches my wrist, and he's actually smiling. Blood runs down his arm, dripping from his elbow, and he's smiling like I just gave him a gift.
"Good," he says. "Never hesitate. Never apologize. The moment you hesitate, you're dead."
"You're bleeding."
"Pain is just information." He doesn't even glance at the cut. "It tells you you're alive, tells you what to protect. Learn to read it, not fear it."
We continue for another hour, and he never treats the wound. Just lets it bleed as he teaches me to turn my weakness into weapons. By the end, I'm drenched in sweat, muscles screaming, but something new burns in my chest. Not fear. Hunger. For strength, for power, for the ability to never be helpless again.
"Tomorrow," he says, not asking. "Same time."
I nod, turning to leave, but his voice stops me.
"Esther."
I look back. He's studying me with that intense focus that makes me feel naked.
"The knife work. You're naturally left-handed, but someone trained you to use your right. Who?"
I'm shocked he noticed from just an hour of training. "My mother. She said ladies don't use their left hand. Said it was wrong, sinister."
Something dark passes across his face. "Your mother was wrong. Tomorrow, we'll undo that damage. Let you be what you really are."
"Which is?"
His eyes burn into mine. "Dangerous."
I leave with his blood still on my hands, feeling more alive than I have in months. More myself. Like he's peeling back layers of propriety to find what's underneath.
Maybe monsters recognize their own kind.