h4Chapter 227: Compromise/h4

    strongElena’s POV/strong

    I don’t know what happened to Damon. One second we were training — punches, kicks, sweat, discipline — and the next?

    The man isnapped/i.

    Not in the angry, throw-you-across-the-room way. No. In the iDamon/i way.

    The touchy, smirky, arrogant bastard kind of way that made it very hard to remember why I was supposed to be mad at him in the first ce.

    At first, I thought I imagined it.

    My roundhouse kick came fast — clean form, good angle — but instead of blocking like he had a hundred times before, he caught my leg mid-air. No real effort. No resistance. Just a smooth, infuriating move.

    But he didn’t push me back.

    He iheld/i it.

    His hand slid down my thigh like he was measuring it, fingers brushing my skin far longer than necessary. A featherlight caress just above my knee, then higher, like he forgot we were itraining/i and not starring in some lust-fueled fantasy he was conjuring on the mat.

    He let go — slowly — as if peeling himself away was an inconvenience.

    I stumbled when my foot hit the floor again, but I masked it with a re.

    "What the hell was that?" I asked, trying not to sound breathless. Failing.

    He shrugged, all calm and smug. "Nice form."

    Nice form, my ass.

    I growled under my breath and lunged again, this time with a series of quick jabs. His movements were fluid, sure — but he wasn’t blocking like before. He was idodging/i, like some shadow-walker with all the time in the world.

    And then came the worst part.

    Another kick. High. Fast. Lethal.

    Caught.

    Again.

    This time, he didn’t let go immediately.

    His thumb brushed the side of my calf, trailing upward with a kind of reverence that was icriminal/i in a training room. I could feel my skin burn where he touched — not from exertion. From ihim/i. From the heat I’d been trying to kill all day and bury underyers of anger and spandex.

    "Damon," I snapped.

    His eyes met mine, and gods, they were ismoldering/i. Not with amusement — but with something darker. Hungrier.

    "Problem?" he asked, voice low, like we weren’t surrounded by punching bags and training mats but tangled between sheets instead.

    "Yeah," I hissed, jerking my leg back and nearly falling. "You’re not taking this seriously."

    "Oh, I’m taking ieverything/i very seriously," he murmured.

    And then — he came closer.

    He didn’t grab. Didn’t lunge. He istalked/i, like a predator who knew the prey wasn’t running anymore — she was iwaiting/i.

    "Wanna know what your problem is?" he asked, chest nearly brushing mine now.

    "No," I lied.

    He leaned down, breath brushing my ear. "You keep throwing punches when you know damn well you want me to pin you again."

    My heart immed/i against my ribs.

    Asshole.

    God, I hated how good he was at reading me. At ipressing buttons/i I didn’t know were wired to every nerve in my body.

    I pushed him away — hard — palms on his chest, trying to create distance.

    But he only smirked. "Touché."

    I red, turning to reset my stance — but I wasn’t blind. I saw the way his eyes dropped, tracing the arch of my back, lingering on the sway of my hips as I moved.

    I wore this outfit to piss him off. And now?

    I think I pissed imyself/i off.

    Because my stupid traitorous body wasn’t angry anymore.

    It was ibuzzing/i.

    And Damon knew it.

    He always did.

    I was sweating now — soaked through and still nowhere nearnding a damn punch to that smug, insufferable face of his.

    And I iwanted/i to. Gods, I ineeded/i to.

    Not because I hated him — though, let’s be honest, sometimes it felt like I did — but because it would’ve been so satisfying to watch that arrogant smirk twitch when my fist actually connected.

    But no.

    It wasn’t happening.

    To him, this wasn’t a fight. It was a game. A dance he was choreographing with maddening ease, and I was just the out-of-sync partner trying to keep up while he spun circles around me.

    Every time I lunged — he was there.

    Every time I feinted — he already knew.

    It was like he could ifeel/i my movements before I made them, like he was always two seconds ahead, reading my mind andughing at the chaos inside it.

    It wasn’t fun anymore.

    It just wasn’t ifair/i.

    He wasn’t even ibreaking a sweat/i.

    Meanwhile, I was dripping, panting, flushed head to toe — not entirely from exertion — and trying not to scream in frustration. Not just because he was impossible to hit, but because he kept itouching me/i during the spars. Little flicks, brushes, grips thatsted too long, fingers tracing ces they had ino business/i being duringbat.

    I didn’t know whether to throw a punch or throw myself at him.

    Worse?

    He iknew it./i

    The bastard was enjoying every second of it — watching me unravel, watching me miss, stumble, burn.

    I swung wide — too wide — and he caught my wrist midair. Effortlessly. Like he’d been waiting for it.

    He didn’t twist it. Didn’t shove me back.

    No. That would’ve been isporting/i.

    Instead, he held it. His fingers curling slowly around mine, a grip that was strong, possessive... and far too iintimate/i for the damn training mat.

    "You’re off bnce," he murmured, voice low, sinful.

    "I’m ifine/i," I snapped, trying to yank my arm back.

    His grip tightened slightly — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who had the upper hand.

    "Frustrated, little Luna?"

    I met his eyes — dark, stormy, and iso damn pleased with himself/i.

    "I swear to the goddess, Damon—"

    "What?" he interrupted, stepping closer again, our wrists still locked together. "Gonna hit me? Gonna kiss me? You’re shaking too much to tell the difference."

    That did it.

    I ripped my hand from his and turned away, grabbing a towel from the bench like it could mop up the iheat/i pouring off me.

    Gods, I hated him.

    "Giving up too soon?"

    His voice was mocking. Teasing. The way only Damon knew how to do — equal parts smug and sexy,ced with just enough challenge to make me twitch.

    I didn’t answer. Too angry to. Too flushed. Too tired of chasing after him and my own self-respect at the same damn time.

    I turned away again, grabbing the towel harder than necessary and dabbing it across my forehead like it was his face.

    "Come on. Wait—wait, I’ll give you an advantage."

    That stopped me.

    I paused mid-wipe, slowly turning my head over my shoulder.

    His eyes lit up with victory — like he knew exactly which strings to pull to keep me in the ring. He always knew.

    "I’ll blindfold myself," he said, one eyebrow cocking as he pulled off his vest in one fluid, sinfully slow motion.

    Of course he had to iremove/i something. Of course he had to do it like that. Just to make sure my brain short-circuited on the spot.

    "What?" I blinked, forcing myself to keep my eyes iup/i. Gods, he was built like a vengeance story — all shadow and muscle and wicked temptation.

    "I’ll blindfold myself," he repeated, spinning the vest between his fingers. "You get free shots. No vision. No reading your body. Just instincts."

    I crossed my arms. "What’s the catch?"

    "No catch." His smirk deepened. "Unless you count me making fun of you for the rest of your life if you still can’t hit me."

    My fingers twitched. He knew iexactly/i what he was doing.

    "You’re insufferable," I muttered.

    "And you’re stalling," he countered, tying the vest tight across his eyes like some smug, half-naked training god.

    "You ready?" I asked, suspicious.

    "Always."

    I circled him once.

    Then again.

    He stood still, posture loose, cocky, like he wasn’t even trying to focus. Like he didn’t need his eyes to destroy me.

    "Okay," I said under my breath. "Let’s see how good your instincts ireally/i are."