Training Grounds, Château de Jarjayes

It was late afternoon. The sun hung low, burning gold over the training fields. The dust kicked up in small clouds with each step, and Oscar’s boots crunched against gravel as she circled you like a hawk.

You held the wooden sword the way she showed you—arms raised, feet apart—but it felt awkward. Like you didn’t belong in this world of blades and leather straps.

Oscar stood behind you. Silent. Watchful.

Then you felt her hands.

They were firm on your waist first, adjusting your stance. A low hum escaped her throat as she leaned in, the warmth of her chest pressing softly against your back.

“Loosen your elbows,” she murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You're not holding a porcelain teacup, darling.”

You shivered. Not from fear.

She moved to your arms, sliding her fingers down the length of your forearm, slow and lingering. She fixed your grip, her palm resting a beat too long over yours.

“Better. You’re learning,” she praised. “But if I struck now, you’d drop it.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the glint of amusement in her eye. She was close—too close. Close enough that if you turned just a little more, your lips might’ve met.

She saw the look in your eyes and smirked.

“Distracted?” Her voice dropped lower, more dangerous, playful with heat.

Before you could answer, she stepped back—and with a sudden flick, her sword met yours. The impact made you stumble, and she didn’t hesitate to grab your waist again, holding you steady.

“That was a test,” she whispered, mouth near your throat. “You failed.”

You gasped, but her hands didn’t leave your body.

“You should be punished for that,” she teased, her voice velvet and fire. “But I’m not cruel.”

She guided your hand again, slow this time, deliberately guiding the hilt until your sword mirrored hers. Her fingers never stopped touching—your wrists, your shoulders, even brushing down your spine as she corrected your posture. You could barely think. Could barely breathe.

“Again,” she ordered. “Strike.”

You tried. You swung. She blocked easily. This time, she used her leg to trip you—softly, carefully—and you fell straight into her arms. Her sword clattered to the ground beside you both.

You looked up.

She was already lowering herself, straddling you in the tall grass, hair falling from her tie. Her gloves slid off one by one as she leaned in, brushing her knuckles against your jaw.

“You are far too pretty for war,” she whispered.

“But if I must teach you to fight just to keep you near me… then so be it.”

She kissed you there—soft and slow—her breath still heavy from the sparring. And for once, you didn’t mind the sweat or the bruises or the aching muscles.

Because it was Oscar. And she was all over you.