The pool sat deep in the cave rock, fed by an underground spring, steam rose off the surface in slow curls. Rodrigo sat with his arms submerged inside, half his body under, his eyes closed shut. His chest rising and falling in rhythm.
Seven and Caleb stood at the other end. Every few minutes one of them looked at the other. Neither said anything.
He’d been submerged since sunrise and it was almost noon and he had not moved, but they knew better than to say a word or interrupt him. They just waited.
Then finally his eyes opened.
Seven crossed to him immediately with the towel and folded clothes. Rodrigo took them, dried off, dressed, and turned toward the exit without a single word to any of them. The light at the cave mouth was bright, it was past noon already.
He stopped just outside, his eyes lifting as he stared into the distance.
Seven was saying something behind him, but the words didn’t register. All he could think about was last night.
Her breath against his mouth. Her fingers in his hair. The softness of her body—
Rodrigo shook his head, as though the action could save him from the thoughts in his head.
He’d spent all morning trying to bury every image of her, but it seemed he’d failed even before he started.
He’d marked her...
Rodrigo’s teeth clenched tightly.
"Alpha." Seven’s voice came from just behind him. "Your breakfast has been ready since morning. It is already past noon—"
Rodrigo turned toward the training grounds, ignoring him.
Seven went quiet as his eyes met Caleb’s briefly, and then they followed, keeping a good distance behind him.
The grounds opened into a wide stretch of packed earth behind the ridge. A dozen lycans were already moving through drills. They stopped when they saw him, heads dropping in greeting.
Rodrigo nodded once. "Get my sword."
Seven turned towards the Alpha’s tent.
"Bring yours," he said. "We’re sparring."
Seven paused. Looked back once. Then he continued.
He returned with both swords, and Rodrigo took his without looking, pulling it free from the sheath. Seven watched his face for a moment before drawing his own.
They moved.
Rodrigo didn’t speak, and didn’t pause for a second. As though afraid to let himself think.
He continued moving in succession, his footwork was clean and hard, each strike coming fast, and his eyes stayed fixed in that flat focused way that had nothing to do with who was in front of him. Seven was one of his best — sharp, fast, well-trained — and he lasted longer than most would have. But his breathing was ragged within minutes, feet dragging, sword arm dropping by inches.
’’Alpha, ’’ he called panting. But Rodrigo didn’t stop.
Seven’s knee hit the ground, as he dropped the sword in concession. Rodrigo stared at him for a moment, then his eyes turned. It landed on Caleb.
"Caleb." he called, ’’Pick the sword.’’
Caleb’s face turned white as sheet, as he took the sword from Seven. Seven quickly moved from the grounds, breathing as he steadied himself.
Caleb lasted lesser than he’d expected. With a clean swipe, his sword landed a meter away from where he stood.
Rodrigo glared at him, and pointed at another Lycan from then men who had gathered to watch.
Then the next man, and the next, Rodrigo moving through them one after another without stopping.
By the seventh, his shirt was soaked through, sweat dripping down his face, the muscle in his jaw was tight enough to ache, but he did not stop.
"Brother."
The familiar voice sounded across ground, and Rodrigo’s hand went still.
Then he turned slowly to the direction of the sound.
"Your men are weak." Dominic’s voice came from the edge of the grounds, easy and amused. His footsteps were unhurried across the earth. "I’m starting to wonder what they’ll do if war actually comes — with such subpar skills?"
Rodrigo blinked once as he watched Dominic walk toward him with both hands loose at his sides, the corner of his mouth pulled up. He looked at the line of winded lycans around Rodrigo and shook his head slowly,
Rodrigo looked at him.
The image of her bruised hand flashed in front of him, and he gritted his teeth, but his expression didn’t move. .
Dominic looked down at him. Then up. The amusement hadn’t left his face but something behind it shifted as he tilted his head,
"Or," he lifted a brow, "maybe you’re just as weak as them,"
The training grounds went still.
Rodrigo looked at his brother, and for a moment nobody moved.
Rodrigo smiled. "You must know a few things that I don’t, brother. Why don’t you teach me?" he glanced at Seven "Get him a sword."
Seven picked one up off the ground and carried it over. Dominic looked down at it, the corner of his mouth already pulling. He took it, turned it once in his palm.
"I oblige," he said, and the word wasn’t even fully out before he moved — a hard diagonal slash cut across Rodrigo without warning, fast enough that two of the men at the edge flinched. Rodrigo stepped aside and it cut air, and Dominic was already swinging again before the first one finished.
Driving forward hard and quick, each strike loud enough that the crack carried across the whole grounds. The men pulled back without meaning to, opening space around them.
Rodrigo kept moving back. Sideways. Giving ground easy, not rushed, letting each strike come and miss him, and his eyes weren’t on the sword — they were on Dominic’s hands, his shoulders, the way his left elbow dropped a little between swings and his weight came forward just before he committed to something. Dominic read the retreat as an opening and pressed harder, faster, and for a stretch it looked like it was working, like Rodrigo was just surviving — and then the strikes slowed. Not much. Just enough.
Then-
Rodrigo attacked.
First strike knocked Dominic’s sword wide. Second went low and made him overextend to cover it, his footing wrong for just a second, and the third came in clean and opened a slash across Dominic’s arm. That arm. The one she’d been bruised on.
The sound from the men was involuntary — a sharp intake, all of them at once — their eyes wide as they watched the scene.
Dominic looked down. Blood came up quickly, bright, staining the white shirt he wore crimson, running the length of his forearm, and he stood there a moment just looking at it before his eyes came up to Rodrigo. They darkened.
Rodrigo steadied his sword and said nothing as he watched him. His eyes blinked once.
Dominic surged forward in anger, the strikes heavier and sloppier and faster. Rodrigo let two go past close enough to feel them, watched where the pattern was going, and stepped inside the third and split the wound back open in the exact same place — the wound that had just barely started to heal, tore open again, blood running past his wrist now and dripping off his fingers onto the dirt.
Some of the men gasped as they watched. Wondering what was going on.
Only Seven stood, arms crossed, smiling.
Dominic stood there breathing, sword arm dropping, blood falling from his fingers in a slow drip, and looked at Rodrigo. Rodrigo looked back. Empty faced. Sword loose at his side.
Just watching.
Dominic came again.
Rodrigo opened the same wound a third time and then he stepped back.
His eyes took in Dominic from head to toe, and then he tilted his head and cast the sword to the side.
It landed flat on the dirt. He rolled his wrist once, slowly.
"Seems you are the one who needs teaching, brother," he said, already walking.
The entire field filled with murmurs, some laughing.
Four steps. Rodrigo had only taken four steps when he heard it — boots scraping hard and fast behind him, he frowned and turned, and just then, Dominic was in front of him, the sword driving forward.
The sword came forward swiftly but before it could reach Rodrigo, he moved to the side, his hand closed around the handle of the sword in Dominic’s hand and he twisted, and it came free.
The sound of Dominic’s knuckle joints cracking carried across the whole field, as he stumbled to the side, his hand hanging by the side.
Rodrigo held the sword for a moment as he stared at his brother.
Then he threw it. It skidded flat across the sand and stopped, the whole field quiet, as everyone watched, wide eyed.
Rodrigo crossed to his brother and stopped just a breath away from him. His eyes darkened as he glared at him,
"You can’t win a sword fight," he whispered, his voice low, a scoff leaving his lips, "and you think you can take a pack from me."
Dominic’s shoulder trembled under his shirt, his eyes not giving an inch, chest rising and falling hard, blood still falling off his fingers in a slow drip onto the ground between them.
Rodrigo held his eyes.
Then he turned around.
Seven and Caleb ran through the field following behind him.
’’Alpha,’’ Seven stepped up-to to his side, offering him a towel.
Rodrigo took it and wiped his hands and tossed it back to Seven, and he continued forward. Seven glanced at him, his lips curving at the side, the frown in his forehead easing a little.
Dominic stood still as he watched Rodrigo walk away, his eyes glaring deathly on his back.
A trembling started in his hands and moved up through his shoulders and he clenched his hands into fists. A laugh came up from somewhere low in his chest, dark and slow, his hand pressing against the wound which had closed up.
He scoffed.
Let’s see how long he’d be able to keep that smile on that face.
A slow smirk stretched the side of his mouth, his eyes going dark.