The private training grounds were tucked behind the castle, a wide, open space surrounded by high stone walls and latticed with creeping vines that tried to soften the severity of the place.
The floor was packed dirt, smoothed flat by years of footsteps, though a few training dummies and wooden posts bore scars from weapons and claws alike.
Ares stood at the center, arms crossed, a broad wall of muscle wrapped in fighting leathers.
The straps clung to him like a second skin, and despite the easy grin tugging at his mouth, his size was more than enough to make me hesitate. He smirked as though he knew it.
Ares wasted no time. "Stretches first. Don’t slack."
He moved with surprising agility for someone his size, bending, rolling his shoulders, showing me how it was done with a precision that betrayed years of discipline. I tried to mimic him, but my muscles pulled and complained almost instantly.
Then came the real work. Push-ups, squats, lunges—simple enough in theory, but under his watchful gaze they became torture. My arms trembled with each push-up, my thighs burned with every squat, and the lunges left me wobbling like a newborn pup.
"Lower," Ares barked, his tone casual but firm, as if he were reminding me to hold a plate properly rather than commanding me to punish my own body. "If you’re not shaking, you’re not doing it right."
I gritted my teeth, sweat already dampening my temples. "I think my body hates me."
"Good. That means it’s working." He smirked, barely winded as he demonstrated another set with infuriating ease.
After what felt like hours, I collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving. "My body feels like it’s breaking."
Ares crouched down in front of me, his smirk widening. "Come on, we’re just starting."
I shot him a glare. "Easy for you to say. Your arms are thicker than my waist."
He chuckled. "You’re exaggerating." His eyes swept over me with mock consideration. "Though, maybe not by much."
I groaned, flopping onto my back. "I hate you already."
"That’s the spirit." He stood and offered me a hand. "Hate me all you want, as long as you keep moving."
"Is that your teaching philosophy? Torture them until they’re too tired to complain?"
"Works every time," Ares said, and to my dismay, he looked genuinely proud of himself.
By the time the session ended, I could barely drag my body out of the training grounds.
Dinner was a blur. My appetite was gone, replaced by exhaustion that settled into my bones like lead.
I excused myself early, staggered to my bedroom, and collapsed face-first onto the bed without even changing out of my training clothes. Sleep claimed me before I could think.
The next morning every muscle ached when I tried to move, soreness spreading through me in sharp little protests.
I groaned, rolling over—and went still when I noticed something.
On my bedside table sat a small tray, holding a steaming cup of milk and a plate of cookies dusted with sugar.
A folded note leaned against the cup.
I dragged myself upright and snatched the paper. I hope you didn’t break some bones. Eat this and prepare for your lessons.
My eyes rolled before I could stop them.
"Smug bastard," I muttered. But when I picked up a cookie and took a bite, the warmth spread through me instantly.
Sweet, soft, comforting... I would be lying if I’d say it didn’t make me feel a little better. The milk was just the right temperature too, its heat sliding down my throat like a balm.
Leaning back against the headboard, I let out a sigh. My body was sore in places I didn’t even know could hurt, but after finishing the last bite, I found just enough strength to drag myself to the bathroom.
Steam filled the air as I sank into the warm bath. The water curled around me, soothing the worst of the aches.
Once I had finished my bath and dressed, Vincent was already waiting in the hall. His posture was as stiff as always, hands clasped neatly behind his back, face unreadable. The moment he saw me, he inclined his head, then turned without explanation, expecting me to follow.
"Where are we going?"
"To the study," he replied simply, his tone clipped and formal.
The study lay at the far end of a quiet corridor. When Vincent pushed the doors open, I was met with a room with shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
At the center stood a wide desk, its surface stacked with several thick volumes.
Vincent gestured toward them. "These books were chosen by the Alpha himself. He wants you to study them."
With that, he gave a small bow and left, the door clicking shut behind him.
I walked to the desk and touched the bindings. None of these titles were familiar. They weren’t the kind of texts one could find in Levian’s libraries.
I opened the first book and found sketches of wolves drawn with uncanny detail, their muscles mapped out like constellations. Runes were inked across their bodies, diagrams that hinted at power flowing through bone and blood.
Another book focused on meditations, techniques for drawing closer to one’s wolf, exercises that demanded more than the simple breathing lessons I once learned.
And so my days fell into rhythm.
Each morning, I was locked away in this study, devouring the books until my head ached. I tried the mental practices laid out within, sometimes failing, sometimes feeling the surge of my wolf’s power.
But it was hard to grip it completely.
In the afternoons, Ares would come to drag me to the training grounds, where my body was pushed to its limits. Muscles screamed, lungs burned, but I kept going because stopping wasn’t an option.
It was exhausting.
But I knew that if I wanted strength, if I wanted to end this bargain sooner to exact my revenge on Finn—then I had to be resourceful.
I had to learn everything. About my wolf. About myself.