Dominic's pov
Ashen didn't return for the rest of training.
I let him go.
Pushing him now would only make him run farther.
But that didn't mean I wasn't thinking about him.
By the time training ended, the sun hung low in the sky, washing the territory in burnt orange and deep blue. I dismissed the warriors with a sharp nod, ignoring the way some of them still glanced in the direction Ashen had gone. They weren't stupid. They could see the tension between us, the way he resisted me at every turn.
Let them wonder.
Ryker lingered as the others filed out, his smirk replaced by something more thoughtful. "You're really set on this, huh?"
I didn't answer right away. Instead, I stretched my neck, rolling out the stiffness in my shoulders. Finally, I said, "He's mine."
Simple as that.
Ryker sighed, shaking his head. "Then I hope you know what you're doing."
I did.
But Ashen didn't make it easy
I found him by the lake.
The moon reflected off the still water, casting silver light over the shore. Ashen sat with his knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them, staring out at nothing.
He heard me approach of course he did. He just didn't acknowledge it.
I stood beside him, watching the lake as well. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Then, quietly, I said, "You don't have to do this alone."
Ashen's fingers curled into the fabric of his pants. "I know."
But he didn't, not really.
I sat down beside him, close but not touching. "Then act like it."
A humorless laugh left him. "That's not how it works."
"Then how does it work?"
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You wouldn't get it."
I turned my gaze to him, studying the sharp angles of his face, the tension in his jaw. "Try me."
For a long moment, he didn't speak.
Then, finally, in a voice so quiet I almost didn't hear it, he admitted, "I don't know how to stop fighting."
Not me. Not the pack.
Himself.
I leaned back on my hands, looking up at the stars. "Then let someone fight for you, for once."
Ashen didn't respond.
But for the first time, he didn't push me away.
Ashen didn't look at me, but I saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his breathing hitched just slightly at my words. He was waiting for me to push, for me to demand, for me to make him submit.
I wasn't going to.
I exhaled slowly, keeping my voice steady. "Let me teach you."
Nothing.
So I pressed on.
"Let me show you how to stop fighting," I said, watching him closely. "And accept yourself for who you are."
His hands curled into fists on his knees, his jaw tightening. "You don't get it," he muttered. "You can't just fix me, Dominic."
I huffed a quiet laugh. "Who said I was trying to fix you?"
That made him turn his head, eyes flashing with something unreadable.
I held his gaze, unwavering. "You're not broken, Ashen."
He flinched, barely noticeable, but I caught it.
He didn't believe me.
Of course he didn't.
He had spent so long forcing himself to be something he wasn't, running from the part of himself that he thought made him weak.
I wasn't going to let him run anymore.
I shifted, moving closer, slow enough that he had time to stop me if he wanted to. He didn't.
His breath hitched again when I lifted a hand, tracing my fingers lightly over his wrist. Over the scars there. Faint, but present.
Proof of his battle against himself.
"You're not weak," I murmured. "You never were."
His throat bobbed. "Then why—"
"Because you were hurt," I interrupted. "Because you thought you had to be something else to survive." I let my fingers drift up his arm, feeling the tension beneath his skin. "But you're safe now, Ashen. You don't have to fight yourself anymore."
His eyes burned into mine, searching, uncertain.
I didn't push. I didn't demand.
I just waited.
Let him make the choice.
And after a long, heavy silence, he did.
He exhaled shakily, his fingers uncurling, his body losing just a fraction of its tension.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough for now.
That tiny crack in his defenses was all I needed.
Not to break him.
To show him that he didn't have to hold himself together so tightly.
Ashen stared at me, his eyes shadowed with wariness, uncertainty. But he hadn't pulled away. That was progress.
I traced my fingers back down his wrist, a deliberate, grounding touch. "Come train with me tomorrow."
He scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it. "I already train with you."
"No," I corrected. "You fight. You resist. You force yourself through it like it's a punishment." I held his gaze, firm but steady. "Come train with me. Not against me."
Ashen was silent for a long moment, his jaw working as he processed my words.
Finally, he muttered, "I don't know how."
I nodded once. "Then let me show you."
He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back to look at the sky. The moon cast silver light over his sharp features, softening him in a way he would probably hate if he knew I was noticing.
I let the silence stretch. Gave him time.
Then, barely above a whisper, he said, "Okay."
It wasn't much.
But it was something.
And for now, I'd take it.
The next morning, I was already in the training grounds before the sun fully rose, waiting.
Ashen would come. I knew he would.
Even if he didn't realize it yet, last night was a turning point. He had spent so long running from himself, from his instincts, from the very things that made him who he was. But now, he was hesitating. That hesitation was enough.
I didn't expect him to come willingly.
So when he finally appeared, hood pulled over his head, hands shoved into his pockets, his expression carefully neutral, I only lifted a brow.
"You're late," I said.
He scoffed. "You never said a time."
I smirked. "I didn't think I had to."
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, stepping onto the training mat. His posture was guarded, his body still bracing for a fight.
I wasn't going to give him one.
Not today.
I tossed a wooden practice knife at him, and he caught it automatically, his grip sure and practiced.
He frowned. "We're doing weapons?"
"We're learning control." I twirled my own knife between my fingers, casual. "You already know how to fight, Ashen. But do you know how to stop fighting?"
His frown deepened. "That's not how it works."
"No?" I stepped closer, deliberate, watching the way he tensed, watching the way his fingers flexed around the hilt. "You fight like you're always preparing for the worst. Like you're waiting for someone to hurt you."
His expression darkened. "Maybe because they do."
I tilted my head. "Do I?"
He froze.
I took another step, slow, until the blade of my practice knife rested just below his ribs not in a threat, not in aggression. Just there.
He could react. He could fight. He could shove me away.
He didn't.
Instead, his fingers twitched on his own weapon, but he didn't strike.
His breathing was uneven, his body coiled like a spring, but he didn't attack.
Good.
I held his gaze, unwavering. "Not everyone is your enemy, Ashen."
His throat bobbed, his grip loosening slightly.
I withdrew the knife and stepped back. "Again."
This wasn't about fighting. It was about trust.
And whether he realized it or not he was already starting to give it.
Ashen exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on the wooden knife. His stance was still tense, still braced for a fight that wasn't coming.
I watched him carefully, taking in every small movement how his fingers curled, how his shoulders remained stiff, how his body remained locked in a state of defense. He was waiting for an attack. Always waiting.
That wasn't strength. That was survival.
"Again," I repeated, stepping forward.
This time, I didn't raise my weapon. I just moved, slow and deliberate, circling him. Not challenging, not threatening. Just… waiting.
Ashen's eyes tracked my every movement. I could see the war in them,the instinct to fight, to react, to do something.
He hated stillness. Hated being vulnerable.
I had to teach him that he wasn't.
I moved again, closing the distance, watching the slight tremor in his fingers. He didn't know what to do with this this patience, this silence, this lack of violence.
So I pushed further.
I reached out, not fast, not sudden, just enough to press the blunt tip of my knife to the center of his chest.
His breath hitched.
"You lost," I murmured.
His nostrils flared. "I didn't—"
"Yes, you did." I stepped back, lowering my weapon. "Because you were too busy waiting for an attack that never came."
His jaw clenched, but I saw it the frustration flickering in his gaze, not at me, but at himself.
Good.
"You don't have to live like this," I said quietly. "Not anymore."
His fingers twitched around the handle of his weapon, then finally, reluctantly, he let it drop to his side.
Not much.
But enough.
I stepped back, nodding toward the training ground. "Again."
And this time, when we moved, something had changed.
Not just in the fight.
But in him.