The sparring ring smelled of sweat, metal, and dust. You faced Jack Barlowe, his grin venomous, dripping with the kind of rage that festered when pride was bruised. He hated you—not just because you were better, faster, sharper—but because Xaden Riorson noticed you.

The fight was fast and brutal. You landed quick, precise blows, but anger made Jack reckless, and sometimes recklessness wins.

His fist connected with the side of your head.

You hit the ground hard, dazed, trying to rise—then his knee crashed down on your neck. Pressure. Crushing, unrelenting. You clawed at him, air vanishing, vision blurring, darkness closing in.

You didn’t wake up.

But Xaden saw everything.

His roar split the training yard, raw and savage. He was on Jack in an instant, tearing him off your body like a man possessed. There was no hesitation, no mercy—just fists meeting flesh, bone shattering under the force of his fury.

Cadets screamed. Instructors yelled. No one dared get close.

When Jack stopped moving, Xaden didn’t.

Blood smeared his hands, his face, dripping from his knuckles as he finally collapsed beside you. His chest heaved, his trembling fingers hovering before gently brushing the bruises blooming on your neck.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered, voice frayed, breaking apart. His hand curled around yours, gripping like he could anchor you to this world with nothing but his touch.