God Of Desire

the invitation

Anastasia :

My breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, the icy morning air biting at my lungs as I struggled to steady myself. I wasn’t out of shape...far from it.

Back home, I practically lived at the gym, ran miles every week, and played both tennis and volleyball competitively.

But none of that prepared me for the sheer brutality of Mikhail’s training sessions. Strength drills were one thing, but sparring with him was an entirely different beast.

My knuckles ached, raw from hours of landing punches, and yet he remained unimpressed. I threw another strike, my fist slamming into the padded vest on his chest with a satisfying thud.

Before I could savor the impact, he sidestepped, his movements annoyingly fluid for a man his size. In the same instant, his hand locked around my arm, twisting it sharply behind me.

“Sloppy,” he muttered, his voice dripping with disinterest as if I weren’t even worth his focus.

Anger flared in my chest, hot and sharp. Gritting my teeth, I ripped my arm free and spun back to face him, my muscles protesting every movement.

The dull ache in my shoulder and the stinging cold in the air didn’t matter...I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.

“Again,” I said, my voice clipped but steady, hiding the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Mikhail didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His raised brow and barely-there smirk said it all. Without warning, he lunged, feinting to my left before sweeping toward me with unnerving speed.

I dropped into a crouch, dodging just in time, and swept my leg out in a counterattack aimed to unbalance him.

He stumbled, just slightly, before recovering with a speed that was almost insulting. “Better,” he said, the faintest edge of approval in his tone.

Then, with a heavy grunt, he reset his stance. “But predictable. Again.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow, my fingers brushing over the raw skin on my knuckles. My lungs burned, my muscles screamed.

I straightened my back, trying to shake off the ache settling into my muscles, when a water bottle was suddenly shoved against my chest.

I barely caught it in time to stop it from falling. Blinking, I glanced up to see Mikhail, already halfway through chugging his own bottle.

As he finished, he capped it with a deliberate twist and gave me a quick once-over, his sharp eyes scanning me from head to toe.

“Tomorrow,” he said simply, his tone making it clear he expected me to be ready...no excuses, no exceptions.

Before he could leave, I spoke up, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “Did I get better?”

The question hung in the air for a moment, my voice tinged with more vulnerability than I intended.

It had been three weeks since I arrived, three weeks of brutal training under Mikhail’s unrelenting watch. If anyone could tell me whether I was improving, it was him.

He paused mid-step, turning his head slightly to glance back at me. For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then, with a small sigh, he said, “Ты такой же, как твой отец.”(You’re just like your father)

The weight of his words hit harder than any punch I’d thrown that morning. Before I could ask what he meant, he turned fully and walked away, leaving me standing there, water bottle in hand, with more questions than answers.