Dorian clears the gym for three days straight. No interruptions. No phone calls. Just me, the mats, and the systematic dismantling of every honorable technique I know.
He circles me like a predator, voice clinical.
"Sabine's new, just like you. Newborns hit like wrecking balls and mistake speed for skill. You need to fight smarter."
My jaw tightens. "I'm not—"
"You are." He stops circling. "A few weeks old. That's an infant in our world."
"I almost killed a vampire at the diner."
"You got lucky at the diner." His voice doesn't rise. Doesn't need to. "Sabine has been feeding longer. Training longer. She's had weeks to adjust to vampire strength. You're still learning not to break doorknobs."
The words land like stones. I wipe blood from my split lip.
"Then show me how not to be new."
Something shifts in his expression. Approval, maybe.
"Show me," I repeat.
He does. Shows me how to collapse a windpipe with a thumb strike. Where to drive fingers to burst an eye. How to make weapons out of whatever's near. Glass. Chairs. Walls. The floor itself.
He teaches me to read the tell before the punch. To bait overcommitments. To use words as knives so the fight starts in the head and ends on the first clean break.
We drill until my muscles shake and my reflexes turn feral.
Between rounds he makes me list Sabine's weaknesses.
"Pride," I say.
"Good. What else?"
"Vanity. She always poses from the left. Never shows her right side. Someone marked her there. Scar or old injury."
Dorian stops moving. "How do you know that?"
"Instagram. TikTok. Six months of her life in fifteen-second clips."
He stares at me. "You've been studying her."
"Since the night Lucien dumped me. Since she walked into that loft like she owned it." I wipe sweat from my face. "She posts from the same three clubs on rotation. Has exactly four people she tags regularly. Two of them stopped appearing three weeks ago. She burns through people fast."
"Keep going."
"She needs an audience. Needs to be seen winning. She'll showboat instead of finishing clean." I meet his eyes. "Her captions are all about power. Control. Being chosen. That desperation makes her reckless."
Something shifts in his expression. Pride mixed with concern.
"You've been planning this for months."
"I've been cataloging her for months. Planning started when she touched June."
"What else?"
"She touches her hair when she lies. Left hand. Three times. And she flinches when anyone approaches from her right side. Not obvious. Just a micro-movement. She hasn't compensated for it yet."
Dorian circles me again. Slower this time. "You're obsessed."
"I might be."
"Is this about Lucien?"
"No. I didn't want Lucien." My voice hardens. "But she made me look weak." I step forward. "And now she touched June. She doesn't get to walk away from that."
Dorian stops. Studies me for a long moment. Then gets back into position.
"Again," he says.
On the second day, during a blood break, I ask the question that's been clawing at my throat.
"What if I lose?"
Dorian's face goes rigid. He sets down his blood bag with too much precision.
"You won't."
I step closer. Force him to look at me.
"But if I do?"
He cups my face in both hands. His voice drops to something raw and dangerous.
"Then I'll break every rule I created and burn this world down."
The words ignite something desperate in my chest. I kiss him hard, tasting salt and violence. He responds immediately, backing me against the training mats, hands rough on my waist.
We're both still sweaty from sparring, both breathing hard, both reaching for each other like drowning people reaching for air.
But the air is thick with the metallic tang of sweat and desire, the faint scent of bleach from the gym mats mingling with the raw musk of our arousal. His hands are frantic, rough, and impatient as they strip me out of my training clothes with zero ceremony. His cold fingertips trail down the curve of my spine, sending shivers through me despite the heat pooling between my legs. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate; he takes.
"Say my name."
His body presses into mine, pinning me against the mat, the firmness of it digging into my back. I feel his hardness against my thigh, throbbing with need, and my own slickness betrays how much I crave him.
"Dorian," I whisper.
He angles himself, sliding into me in one fluid, unrelenting thrust. My breath hitches, and I arch into him, my nails raking down his shoulders.
"Say it again."
His hands grip my hips like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. Every movement is desperate, frantic.
"Dorian—"
His thrusts get deeper, harder, as if he’s trying to consume me whole. I can feel him everywhere, inside me, around me, his breath ragged against my neck. Our bodies grind together, the rhythm erratic, messy, and perfect.
"Dorian—"
I feel myself unraveling, the pleasure building like a tidal wave, crashing over me until I’m crying out, my voice echoing in the empty gym. He muffles his own groan against my skin, his fangs grazing my neck, teasing but not biting. His release follows mine, unrelenting, spilling into me as he shudders against my body.
His forehead presses to mine, breath ragged against my mouth.
"You come back to me. You hear me? You come back."
His hands roam, exploring, claiming, as he begins again, slower this time, savoring every inch of me. I want this—want him—for as long as he’ll take me.
"I will come back to you."
But the lie sits bitter on my tongue because for the first time since turning, I'm genuinely afraid. Not of pain. Not of losing. Of leaving him alone again. Of being another name on his list of people who didn't stay.
We move together with desperate urgency, chasing oblivion, trying to memorize each other through touch. When I come again it's with his name broken on my lips and tears I didn't know I was crying wet on my face.
After, we stay tangled together on the mats, neither speaking. The silence says everything. Tomorrow I fight. Tomorrow I might die. Tonight we have this.
He kisses my temple. My cheek. My mouth. Gentle now. Reverent.
I close my eyes and try to burn the feeling into my memory.