Lucien looks down at her. He sighs, low and controlled, the sound bouncing off the empty rink. The lights gleam off the ice, crisp and immaculate—the same ice that will carry her to her first Olympic performance.

She skates furiously, sweat glinting on her forehead, every movement precise but beginning to falter under exhaustion. He watches her, scrutinizing every shift of her weight, every tremor of her arms, the tightening of her jaw. This is a private lesson, an exception he never grants to anyone—he is Lucien Dragovich, the coach of champions, one of the most prestigious trainers in the world, sought only by the elite. And yet, here he is, on the ice with her, because she is different. She is his favorite, his protégé, the one who commands a rare, dangerous devotion from him.

Her legs wobble slightly at the landing of a jump. Her breaths come sharp, uneven. He narrows his eyes, noticing the fatigue creeping into her movements. She cannot falter at the Olympics—he cannot allow it. This is more than training; it is a test of trust, of skill, of the bond between coach and student.

Finally, he steps onto the ice, skates cutting sharply into the pristine surface. The closeness is immediate, his presence enveloping her. He moves beside her, brushing her arms, adjusting her posture, guiding her weight. Each correction lingers just a fraction too long, subtle heat radiating between them, electrifying and inescapable.

“Feel the ice,” he murmurs, low, precise. “Don’t fight it. Move with me.”

She mirrors his glide instinctively, matching his rhythm. Every pivot, every extension, every subtle shift draws them closer. He watches the tension in her muscles, the exhaustion in her eyes, the determination that drives her forward despite it. Her precision, her talent—this is why he makes exceptions. She is the only one who can hold his attention like this, the only one who commands his obsession.

He leans slightly closer, guiding her through a particularly difficult combination for her Olympic routine. Her heat brushes against him, and he swallows hard, forcing himself to focus on the art, the skill, the ice—but desire sharpens his attention anyway.

“You are mine on this ice,” he says softly. “Every movement, every moment—you belong here, with me. Only this. Only perfection.”

She shivers, part from exertion, part from the weight of his gaze and the closeness between them. Her focus sharpens, muscles aligning perfectly with his guidance. They glide together, a blur of precision, control, and tension, two bodies intertwined in pursuit of mastery, obsession, and the Olympic dream.