Chapter 13: The First Lesson
The warmth of the bed was a seductive trap. Charlie pried her eyes open just before dawn, the gray light seeping through the window like cold water. Rennick was already gone, the space beside her cool. A flicker of doubt, cold and familiar, twisted in her gut.Had last night just been… distraction?Then the bedroom door swung open. He stood there, dressed in simple black sweatpants and a worn grey t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders.He held two mugs of steaming coffee.“Up. Now.”
“It’s still dark,” she grumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
“Best time to train,” he said, placing a mug on the nightstand. The rich, bitter scent jolted her system more than any alarm.“No audience.Less distraction.”
She dragged herself upright, wincing. Muscles she didn’t know she had ached with a pleasant, deep soreness.A reminder.She took the coffee, sipping cautiously. “What exactly are we training?”
“Your wolf is strong, Charlie.But strength without control is just a different kind of weakness. Kent will count on that. He’ll count on you being all instinct, no strategy. We’re changing the math.”
The mention of Kent’s name soured the coffee in her mouth. She set the mug down, the blanket pooling around her waist. “I don’t want to fight him. But I do want to be able to protect myself and our pack”
“Good,” Rennick said, his silver gaze unwavering. “Because you won’t have to.Not alone. But if one of his wolves gets past me, past our border guards, and finds you… you need to be more than just scrappy. You need to be lethal.”
The word hung in the air.Lethal. It wasn’t a word she’d ever applied to herself.Survivor, yes.Fighter, maybe.But lethal? That belonged to people like Rennick. Like Kent and Marcus. He seemed to read her hesitation. “It’s not about wanting to kill.It’s about having the capability. Sometimes the only thing that stops a predator is the certainty that its prey can bite back hard enough to make it bleed.Now get dressed. Layers.It’s cold out there.”
The training grounds were different in the half-light. The wooden dummies weren’t just equipment; they looked like specters waiting in the mist that rose from the damp earth. The world was silent except for the crunch of frost under their boots and the distant, lonely call of a crow.
Rennick led her to a clear patch of ground, devoid of equipment.“First lesson.Balance.”
Charlie almost snorted. “I know how to stand, Rennick.”
“Show me.”
She planted her feet shoulder-width apart, arms slightly raised, a stance she’d seen in movies.He circled her slowly, a critical eye missing nothing. Then, with a movement too fast to track, he nudged the back of her knee with his foot.Her leg buckled instantly, and she stumbled forward, catching herself with her hands.
“You know shit,” he said, no malice in it, just fact. “Your weight’s all in your heels. A child could push you over.” He stepped in close behind her, his front to her back.His hands settled on her hips, a firm, guiding heat.“Feel your feet. Really feel them.The ball, the arch, the heel. Distribute it.”
He adjusted her stance, millimeter by millimeter, his voice a low rumble in her ear.“There. Slight bend in the knees.Not a squat.Just… ready. Now, if I push you,” he placed a hand on her sternum and applied gentle pressure, “you move with it. Don’t brace like a wall.Absorb. Redirect.”
They spent what felt like an hour just on that.Push, step, pivot.Push, slide, turn. It was agonizingly slow.Her mind screamed with impatience.This wasn’t fighting.This was dancing. And she was terrible at it.Frustration bubbled over after her tenth clumsy pivot. “This is pointless! I’m not going to be fighting someone who just pushes me!”
Rennick didn’t react to her outburst. His calm was a mirror that reflected her own chaos back at her.“A punch is just a push,” he said, “delivered very fast. If you can’t handle my hand here,” he pushed her again, and she wobbled, “you’ll never handle a fist here.” He tapped her jawline, his finger a cold point of contact.She glared at him, breathing hard.
“Your frustration is a weapon you’re aiming at yourself,” he observed.“Stop it.Breathe. Try again.”
The morning wore on.The mist burned away under a pale lemon sun. The footwork began to feel less alien.Her muscles started to understand the economy of motion he demanded. Then he moved on to the punch.“Never lead with your face,” he instructed, positioning a heavy bag. “Your body is a chain. Power comes from the ground, up through the legs, into the core, and then out through the arm.” He demonstrated, a shot that wasn’t particularly fast but landed with a sickening, solid thump that made the bag swing on its chain.
He made her practice the motion without hitting anything for another eternity.“You’re slapping. I want a hammer. A bullet.”
Her knuckles were raw, her shoulder screaming, when he finally let her hit the bag.Her first real attempt was pathetic. A weak slap that stung her hand and barely moved the leather.“Again.”
She hit it.Harder.“Again. Hips forward. Twist.”
She threw another punch, channeling every bit of her anger—at Kent, at her own helplessness, at Rennick’s infuriating patience—into the blow. Her fist connected with a sharper crack.The bag jerked.
A low, approving growl vibrated from Rennick’s chest.It wasn’t a human sound. It was pure wolf. That sound, more than any word, sent a jolt of pure, hot triumph straight through her.“Again,” he said, his voice dark with promise. “Just like that.”
She fell into a rhythm, the world narrowing to the feel of the bag against her fists, the burn in her muscles, the sound of his breath at her back. She didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until they were almost upon them.
A young male wolf, one of the border scouts, emerged from the tree line.His face was tense. He gave a slight bow of his head to Rennick, his eyes flicking to Charlie and her bruised knuckles for a split second. “Alpha. A word.”
Rennick’s focus snapped from her to the scout, his relaxed posture hardening instantly into command. “Report.”
The scout kept his voice low, but Charlie’s heightened senses caught the words.“Tecumseh scouts.Two of them. On the high ridge due north, just outside our markers.They weren’t hiding. They wanted to be seen.”
Rennick was silent for a long moment.The air seemed to grow colder.He finally nodded. “Double the patrols.Standard defensive posture.Do not engage. Dismissed.”
The scout melted back into the woods.The peaceful training ground felt suddenly exposed, a stage under a hostile gaze. Charlie’s hands fell to her sides, the rush of achievement draining away, leaving the raw ache behind.
Rennick turned back to her.The warmth from before was gone, replaced by a glacial calm. He walked over, took her injured hand gently in his, examining the split skin over her knuckles.
“They’re testing,” he said, his thumb stroking over the uninjured part of her hand.“Seeing how we respond. Trying to rattle us.” He looked up, his silver eyes capturing hers. “Are you rattled?”
She thought of the ridge north of them, imagined Kent’s cold eyes looking down.The old fear tried to climb her throat. But beneath it, warmer and fiercer, was the memory of the bag jerking under her fist, and the approving growl of her mate.“No,” Charlie said, and found she meant it. Her voice was steadier than she felt.
A ghost of a smile touched Rennick’s lips.“Good.” He released her hand.“We’re done for today. Go clean up.Rest. This was just the beginning.”
They start walking back toward the pack house when Rennick reminds her of the emergency council meeting, and that it would be best if she came with him.
“Well that sounds fun,” Charlie says sarcastically.