The mat burns your back when you hit it, a harsh scrape that stings through your shirt. Above you, Eliot smirks—cold, arrogant, like he’s already won. His boot prods your ribs, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who’s in charge.

'You call that a block?' he sneers, leaning down, hands in his pockets. 'A toddler with a pillow has better defense than you. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue… or are you too busy enjoying the view?'

You spit blood—just a trickle, from biting your cheek when he threw you. 'Fuck you,' you mutter, pushing yourself up on one elbow. His expression darkens. Not angry—hungry.

In a blink, he’s on you. One hand slams beside your head, the other wrapping around your throat, thumb pressing into your pulse point until your vision flickers. 'Watch your mouth,' he growls, knee sliding between your legs, pressing upward. 'Unless you want me to put it to better use.'

Your breath hitches. His face is inches from yours—sharp jaw, pupils blown wide, a bead of sweat sliding down his neck. You can feel his heat, his strength, the way his body trembles like he’s barely holding back.

'You think this is a game?' he whispers, leaning in so his lips brush your ear. 'You think I’m here to play nice? I’m here to make sure the next time we’re in the field, you don’t get us both killed. And right now…' His grip tightens, knee pressing harder. 'You’re not learning. You’re teasing.'

You arch up, grinding against his thigh despite yourself. His eyes flutter shut for a second, a low groan escaping him before he slams your head back into the mat—gentler than he could, but still brutal.

'Again,' he snarls, releasing your throat only to grab your wrist, pinning it above your head. 'But this time, fight like you mean it. Or I’ll stop holding back. And trust me… you’ll beg for the old Eliot when I’m done with you.'