Page 50 of The Fractured Veil

“Pathetic,” he muttered, releasing me as if I were something disgusting, something beneath his notice. His gaze was cold, disapproving, and I flinched inwardly, hating the way his judgment made my stomach churn.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, to regain my composure. I could feel my cheeks burning, both from exertion and embarrassment. I stood up straighter, my eyes locked onto his, determination surging through me—a wave of defiance washing over the fear. “I’m not done,” I stated, my voice shaking slightly, but firm.

Damon’s smirk widened, a flicker of something akin to amusement in his eyes, and he nodded slightly, as if acknowledging my resolve. "Good," he said, his voice still laced with that dangerous undercurrent. "Then show me." He moved again, faster this time, and I braced myself, my muscles tense, ready to prove that I wasn't as weak as he seemed to think.

The tension between us crackled in the air, thick and palpable, each movement charged with an underlying challenge—a silent conversation of defiance and dominance. Every strike, every dodge, every near miss, was a test—a battle not just of strength and skill, but of willpower, of sheer, stubborn determination. I could feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity in his eyes as he pushed me to my limits. And despite the anger simmering beneath the surface, there was something else—a spark, something that made my heart pound for reasons beyond just fear. It was a strange, unsettling awareness of him, of his power, of the raw, untamed energy that radiated from him like heat from a fire.

I clenched my teeth, the sting of every blocked hit and every missed step digging at my pride. Damon’s eyes bore into mine, filled with a mix of disdain—and something else. Something curious, as if he was trying to understand what made me tick, what drove me to keep fighting even when I was clearly outmatched. He moved with an effortless grace that made me feel clumsy in comparison, my movements awkward and uncoordinated.

“Come on, Thalia,” Damon taunted, his voice low and almost mocking, a cruel edge that made my blood boil. “My brothers shouldn’t have to risk themselves because you can’t hold your own.”

His words were like a physical blow, driving me forward with a fresh rush of adrenaline. I surged towards him, my frustration peaking, my vision tunneling with anger. For a moment, his expression shifted—surprise flickered in his eyes, a brief flash of vulnerability—as my fist aimed for his face, connecting with his jaw with a satisfying thud.

I lunged again, aiming my elbow for his ribs, but he anticipated the move—his hand snaking out in a blur of motion. He captured my arm just above the elbow, his fingers like steel bands, and twisted it behind my back. The world seemed to tilt as his other arm moved around my waist. My body was now pressed against his, the hard planes of his chest a solid wall against my back, pinning me in place. The air left my lungs, and panic clawed at the edges of my control. His breath was hot against my ear, the smoky, bergamot scent of him intensifying, filling my senses and making my head spin. A strange tremor ran through me, a shiver that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with…I didn’t know what. I pushed the thought away, angry at myself for even acknowledging it.

"Fuck you, Damon! Let me go!" I growled, twisting in his grip. I tried to stomp on his foot, but he shifted his weight effortlessly.He was toying with me.The realization sparked a fresh wave of anger. A searing pain shot through my shoulder, making my vision blur. I bit back a cry, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“You let emotions dictate your actions,” he whispered, his tone almost intimate—a low rumble against my ear. “That makes you predictable.” I felt his body go stiff as I struggled against him. “Don't,” he warned, his voice hardening.

Anger boiled over—hot and blinding—and I used my weight to break free, spinning to face him, my breath ragged, my chest heaving. “Maybe I am emotional,” I retorted, eyes narrowed, voice shaking with anger. “But at least I'm not cold and a fucking psychopath.”

Something in his gaze flickered—an emotion I couldn’t quite place. A fleeting shadow that vanished as quickly as it appeared, before his familiar smirk returned, a mask snapping back into place. “Emotions are a liability, they make you weak,” he countered as he stepped back and motioned for me to come at him again, the challenge clear in his eyes. “Show me what else you've got.”

I charged, my muscles screaming in protest, focusing all my energy into every movement, every punch and kick, my frustration fueling my determination. Damon met each strike with calculated precision, his movements effortless and controlled, but there was a slight change in his demeanor—he wasn’t just testing me anymore. He was engaging, pushing me harder, as if he was starting to see me as more than just a burden, as more than just a fragile human girl.

Our bodies moved in a strange, almost brutal dance, the sounds of our breathing and the dull thud of blows filling the training ground, echoing in the stillness of the early morning. The tension between us felt electric, a charged current that ran between us, each clash of our fists a spark that seemed to ignite something deeper, something raw and primal. The anger that had fueled me at the start began to shift, morphing into something else—something raw and unspoken, a strange mix of frustration, adrenaline, and a burgeoning awareness of him that I couldn't quite explain.

Damon stepped forward, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist, his fingers closing around it with surprising gentleness. He twisted, pulling me off balance, and I stumbled, falling against him, my breath catching in my throat. For a moment, we were chest to chest, our bodies pressed together, his eyes locking onto mine. His stare intense, searching. The world around us seemed to blur, the only thing I could focus on was the heat radiating from him, and the look in his eyes—a smoldering fire that seemed to sear right through me, leaving me breathless. A strange mix of apprehension and something else… something that made my stomach flip, a fluttering sensation that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

“Better,” he said, his voice a low rumble against my chest. There was a hint of something new in his tone—something that sounded almost like… approval. “You’re learning.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, and shoved at his chest, the hard muscle barely giving way beneath my palms. I stumbled back a step, putting some much-needed distance between us. The smoky scent of him lingered in the air around me, making it hard to focus. My skin tingled where he'd touched me, a lingering warmth that spread through my veins like wildfire.

This was just the beginning, and I was determined to prove—not just to Damon, but to everyone who saw me as fragile, as weak, as a liability. I would show them they were wrong.

I wouldn't let Nox or Zarek put themselves at risk for me. The memory of my dream flashed in my mind—Nox, lying there, pale and still, his emerald eyes glazed over with pain, his lifeblood staining the ground beneath him—and my chest tightened painfully, a sharp pang of fear that made it hard to breathe. The image was too vivid, too real, the phantom sensation of his blood on my hands still lingering.

No more running.

No more fear.

I would not be a damsel in distress.

I wouldn't be a burden.

Chapter22

Zarek’s POV

The sun's early rays barely warmed the crisp morning air, casting long shadows across the training grounds like fingers reaching out from the darkness. The tension between Damon and Thalia was palpable from my vantage point—like a taut wire vibrating with unspoken energy, ready to snap at any moment. This wasn't just combat practice; it was something deeper, more intimate—a silent conversation held in the clash of limbs and the exchange of heated glances. Damon's every move was calculated, deliberate, pushing Thalia physically and mentally, probing her defenses in ways only he could. And Thalia, fierce and unyielding, held her ground with a surprising tenacity. She was stubborn, relentless, refusing to be broken by his relentless assault.

There was something different about Thalia today—a newfound spark in her eyes. Maybe it was the way she refused to back down, the fire in her gray eyes that never wavered, even as Damon tried to push her past her limits. Despite the fact that she was clearly outmatched in terms of raw power and experience, she was standing her ground—refusing to submit, refusing to let Damon have the satisfaction of seeing her fall. Her spirit shined through, an inner resilience that captivated me.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of my lips.She’s impressive, I thought, my admiration growing with each passing moment. Thalia wasn't like anyone else at Nexara Academy. She didn't rely on flashy powers or the prestige of her lineage like so many of the other privileged students here. There was a rawness to her, an authenticity that was utterly… captivating. She fought to earn her place—not for recognition or glory, but for survival—and maybe, to prove Damon wrong in his harsh judgments of her.

I'd seen her struggle before, watched her doubt herself more times than she probably realized. She tried to hide it behind those beautiful eyes, that carefully constructed wall of indifference, but I could tell. I could see the flicker of uncertainty beneath the surface. Thalia wasn't like Damon; she wasn't born into this world of shadows and secrets, of inherited power and ancient rivalries. She was thrust into it, unprepared and vulnerable. But still, she fought. And that kind of spirit—that real, untamed determination—was impossible not to admire.

Damon, of course, was relentless as ever. His movements were sharp, precise, almost savage, as though he could read her mind before she even made a move. I could see the frustration building within her—her jaw clenching, her fists tightening just a little too hard, the pulse throbbing at her temple. And yet, every time he knocked her back, every time she stumbled or fell, she rose again, dusted herself off, and returned to the fight, more determined than before. It was as if his attempts to break her only served to strengthen her.

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