-Vaughn Blackmore:
The first training session with Ryland Grayson made everything worse.
We were called into sparring rotations, the usual structure of controlled fights and timed rounds. Names were being called, people stepping forward, the energy on the field shifting into something sharper, more focused.
I didn't think much of it.
Until—
"Blackmore. Grayson."
My name.
His name.
Together.
A quiet ripple moved through the people around us, subtle but noticeable.
I stepped forward anyway.
There was no hesitation.
There couldn't be.
Ryland was already in the ring when I reached it, standing there like he had been waiting. His posture was relaxed, but there was nothing loose about him. Everything about the way he stood felt intentional.
Controlled.
Like he already knew how this was going to end.
We faced each other, the space between us small but heavy. I could feel the attention around us, the way people were watching just a little more closely than usual.
An Omega.
Against him. Against the Ryland Grayson.
"Ready?" the instructor asked.
"I am," I said.
Ryland didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
"Go."
I moved first.
Fast. Direct. Everything I had learned, everything I had worked for, pushed into that single moment. I closed the distance quickly, aiming to strike before he could fully react.
He blocked it like it was nothing.
His hand caught my wrist mid-motion, his grip firm, unyielding. Before I could adjust, before I could recover, his body shifted—
And the world flipped.
My back hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath out of me instantly. Pain shot through my spine, my vision blurring for a second as I struggled to pull in air.
Too fast.
Way too fast.
I barely had time to process it before he was standing over me, looking down like this was expected.
"Get up," he said.
No mockery.
No effort.
Just expectation.
I pushed myself up, ignoring the way my lungs burned.
Again.
This time I tried to adjust, to anticipate his movement. I changed my angle, moved quicker, and tried to force him to react instead of the other way around.
It didn't matter.
He took me down again.
And again.
Each time is just as controlled.
Just as effortless.
Like he was proving something.
By the fourth time, my body felt heavier, slower. My reactions weren't as sharp. My breathing was uneven, my muscles starting to protest in a way I couldn't ignore.
He stepped closer again, just enough that no one else could hear him.
"You don't belong here," he said quietly.
The words hit harder than the ground.
I forced myself back up anyway, anger pushing past the exhaustion.
"I'm not leaving," I shot back.
Something flickered in his eyes.
Brief.
Cold.
"Then you're going to keep losing," he said.
I lunged again.
Because stopping wasn't an option.
Because giving up wasn't an option.
He slammed me down just as easily.
This time, when I hit the ground, I stayed there for a second longer than I should have—not because I couldn't get up, but because something inside me cracked just slightly under the weight of it.
Not my body.
My pride.
"Stay down," he said quietly.
I looked up at him, chest heaving, dirt sticking to my skin, anger burning hotter now, sharper.
I hated him.
For the way he looked at me.
For the way he dismissed me.
For how easy he made it seem.
And maybe, a little, for how right he thought he was.
I pushed myself up again.
Because I always do.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it's pointless.
I get back up.
And I don't stop.