Page 14 of The Brute and the Blade

"It's real," he finishes for me, his forehead coming to rest against mine. "It's the most real thing I've ever felt, Lily. And it terrifies me as much as it thrills me."

I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me, letting myself sink into the warmth and strength of his touch. Gods, how I want to believe him. How I want to lose myself in this feeling, in this impossible, forbidden connection that tugs at my very soul.

But I can't. I can't forget who I am, what I am. I am the Red Blade, sworn to defend humanity against all threats. And Grok, for all his unexpected depths and hidden kindnesses, is still the enemy. Still the warlord of the horde that seeks to conquer and enslave my people.

I take a deep, shuddering breath and pull away, stepping back out of his embrace. He lets me go, his expression a mix of understanding and regret.

"Teach me, then," I say, my voice steady despite the riot of emotions churning in my gut. "Show me how to fight like an ogre, to wield your weapons and know your ways. But don't think for a moment that it changes anything between us, Grok. I am still your prisoner, and you are still my captor. Nothing more."

He regards me for a long, searching moment, his amber eyes glinting with a heat that sends a shiver down my spine. Then, slowly, he nods.

"As you wish, Lady Thornwood," he rumbles, his voice a low, resonant growl. "Let us begin, then."

He turns and strides over to the weapons rack, selecting a massive, wickedly curved blade that looks more like a butcher's cleaver than a sword. He hefts it easily in one hand, then tosses it to me with a casual flick of his wrist.

I catch it awkwardly, the weight and balance unfamiliar in my grip. Grok chuckles, shaking his head.

"Not like that," he chides, moving to stand behind me. "Here, let me show you."

He wraps his arms around me from behind, his massive hands engulfing mine as he adjusts my grip on the hilt. I stiffen at his touch, my breath catching in my throat at the feel of his body pressed against mine.

"Relax," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. "You're too tense, too rigid. An ogre weapon is an extension of your body, not a separate thing. You must flow with it, let it become a part of you."

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax into his hold. He moves with me, guiding my hands and arms through a series of slow, fluid motions that feel almost like a dance.

"Good," he rumbles, his voice a low, approving purr that sends a shiver down my spine. "You learn quickly, little blade. You have a natural grace, a fluidity that many of my warriors lack."

I flush at the praise, a warm glow kindling in my chest despite my best efforts to suppress it. "I had a good teacher," I mumble, feeling suddenly shy and awkward in his embrace.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me like a physical caress. "And I had a good student," he counters, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "One who challenges me, surprises me, makes me question everything I thought I knew."

I shiver at his words, at the raw honesty in his voice. Gods, how can he do this to me? How can he strip away my defenses, my certainties, with just a touch and a few murmured words?

"Grok," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I...I can't. We can't. It's impossible, it's..."

"Shh," he soothes, his grip tightening on mine. "Don't think, Lily. Don't analyze or agonize or try to make sense of it all. Just feel. Just be here, in this moment, with me."

I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me, letting myself sink into the warmth and strength of his embrace. And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself imagine. Let myself picture a world where this could be real, where we could be together without the weight of history and hatred bearing down on us.

But it's just a fantasy, a beautiful, impossible dream. Reality comes crashing back in the form of a sudden, sharp pain in my side, and I gasp, my eyes flying open.

Grok has moved away, the training blade in his hand, his expression a mix of apology and challenge. "Never let your guard down, little blade," he chides, tapping the flat of the blade against my ribs. "Not even for a moment, not even with me. The enemy will always seek to exploit your weaknesses, your vulnerabilities."

I stare at him, my heart pounding, my skin tingling where he touched me. Gods, he's right. I let myself get distracted, let my emotions cloud my judgment. It's a mistake I can't afford to make, not here, not with him.

I step back, raising my own blade in a defensive stance. "Again," I say, my voice steady despite the riot of feelings churning in my gut. "Teach me more."

He grins, a fierce, approving flash of teeth. "With pleasure," he growls, and lunges at me with a speed that belies his size.

We spar for hours, the world narrowing to the clash of blades and the rasp of labored breathing. He's a patient teacher, guiding me through the unfamiliar stances and techniques of ogre combat with a firm but gentle hand.

I soon lose myself in the rhythm of it, the dance of thrust and parry and riposte. My muscles burn with exertion, my skin slick with sweat, but I push through the pain and fatigue, determined to prove myself, to show him that I am every bit the warrior he believes me to be.

And somewhere along the way, something shifts between us. The formality, the distance that has always marked our interactions begins to melt away, replaced by a playful, almost teasing camaraderie.

He laughs when I land a particularly clever blow, his eyes sparkling with genuine mirth. I find myself grinning back, a fierce joy bubbling up inside me at the sight of his unguarded delight.

We trade barbs and banter as we circle each other, our words as quick and sharp as our blades. He calls me "little blade" and "fierce one," his voice warm with affection and respect. I shoot back with "old man" and "slow poke," relishing the way his eyes flash with mock outrage.

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