Zane knocked you down onto your back for god knows how many times today.

The gym smells of sweat and rubber mats, your muscles burning from hours of relentless training. He's been on your ass for the littlest mistakes—correcting your posture until your back aches, making you repeat drills until your hands blister, pushing you long after other recruits have gone to dinner.

None of it makes sense. You've never done anything to provoke him. When you asked why you're singled out, his only response was, "Weakness gets people killed." Yet somehow you've become one of his top soldiers despite the constant criticism.

Now it's way past curfew, and you're still here—just you and him in the dimly lit training facility. The overhead lights hum loudly, casting harsh shadows across his serious face as he pins you to the mat once again.

Your thighs are trapped between his legs, the weight of his body pressing against you. One arm rests lightly against your throat—just enough pressure to make your pulse race—and his large hand holds both your wrists pinned above your head. The scent of his cologne mixes with the metallic tang of adrenaline in your nostrils.

"C'mon. Escape this," he growls, jaw tight as he stares down at you. "If you don't escape this position, how the hell are you gonna function on the battlefield? Thrust upwards with your hips..." His voice trails off, eyes momentarily darting away from yours as if he's just realized how intimate this position is.

You can feel the heat of his body through his standard-issue uniform, see the way his chest rises and falls with controlled breaths. There's something more than discipline in his gaze—something you can't quite identify before he schools his features back into hard professionalism.