He paused, his gaze sweeping over Konstantin, Sylvanna, and Dmitri.
"This tests character. How you train reveals who you are. Be strategic. Be precise." His eyes lingered on each of them. "Or be brutal. The choice is yours. I will judge accordingly."
The words hung in the air, deliberately vague. Deliberately dangerous.
Because he wasn’t telling them to be kind. He was giving them permission to interpret however they wanted.
And we both knew how Konstantin would interpret it.
"And the throwers?" Konstantin asked, eyes never leaving me. "Do we aim for specific targets, or...?"
"Anywhere but the head or throat," Vladimir said flatly. "Everywhere else is fair game."
Konstantin’s smile widened.
Ribs. Stomach. Legs. Arms. Back.
"The test measures reflexes, pain tolerance, resilience under duress," Vladimir continued, finally looking at me. "You will endure. You will adapt. Or you will yield."
"How long does it last?" I heard myself ask.
Vladimir’s eyes met mine. "Until you yield. Or until you can no longer stand."
Or until you can no longer stand.
Translation: until they break me.
Sylvanna rose from her seat, expression unreadable as she approached Arlo and selected several balls, testing their weight. Dmitri followed, moving with that same quiet intensity, dark eyes flicking once to me before focusing on the equipment.
Konstantin walked straight to the crate and grabbed a handful. He didn’t test them. Didn’t weigh them.
He just stared at me while he gripped them, knuckles white, that vicious smile never faltering.
"I have been waiting for this," he said quietly. Just loud enough for me to hear.
My legs started shaking.
Arlo approached me with the rope, his expression carefully blank.
"Arms," he said gruffly.
I stared at him. At the rope. At the arena behind him where they were marking positions for the throwers.
This was actually happening.
"Lilith." Vladimir’s voice cut through my spiraling panic.
I turned to look at him.
His expression was cold. Controlled. Exactly the same as always.
Through the bond—nothing. Just that same steady, immovable presence. No reassurance. No apology.
He’d given me to them.
"Arms," Arlo repeated, more firmly this time.
My hands trembled as I held them out.
The rope was rough against my wrists, binding them together with practiced efficiency. Then Arlo crouched, tying my ankles with just enough slack that I could stand and shuffle, but not run.
Not that there was anywhere to run.
Konstantin was already rolling one of the balls between his palms.
Dmitri stood at his marker, silent and still, six balls held loosely in one hand.
Sylvanna positioned herself at her marker, expression sharp and focused.
And I stood in the center of the arena, wrists bound, ankles bound, completely exposed.
"Begin," Vladimir said.
The first ball hit before I could even process the word.
Pain exploded in my shoulder—white-hot, bone-deep, radiating down my entire arm. I screamed. The sound tore from my throat before I could stop it.
A second ball slammed into my ribs before I’d even caught my breath.
The air left my lungs. I doubled over, gasping, vision swimming.
>I’m here, my wolf’s voice came through, sharp and focused. Feel it coming. Move with me.
A third ball whistled toward my stomach. I tried to twist, stumbled on bound ankles, barely avoided a direct hit. It grazed my hip instead—still hurt like hell.
"Come on, hybrid!" Konstantin’s voice rang out, dripping with false encouragement. "Move faster! Or is this too much for you already?"
Another ball from Sylvanna this time. Precise. Fast. Aimed at my thigh.
>Left! Kaia’s instinct merged with mine.
I shifted. The ball hit my outer leg instead of knee. Still painful, but not crippling.
"That’s it," Sylvanna called, her tone was playful. was just a game. "Anticipate. React. Don’t be slow."
At least she was not too bad. She was not being cruel. Just teasing.
"Aw, look at her trying," he laughed. "Like a puppy learning to fetch. Except the puppy’s about to get put down."
Another ball from him. Harder. Faster. Aimed at my ribs again.
I dove right. Hit the ground hard on my shoulder—the same one already screaming from the first impact. Pain flared bright and vicious.
I scrambled to my feet just as another ball sailed past where my head had been.
"Move, hybrid!" Konstantin taunted. "Dance for us!" Latest content publıshed on novelFirｅ.net
My breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat stung my eyes. Every muscle trembled.
>Breathe, Kaia said. Feel the rhythm. We’ve done this before—on the parapet. Same dance. Trust me.
I tried. I really tried.
The next few throws came in waves—Sylvanna’s precise and measured, Dmitri’s oddly... gentle?
Konstantin threw like he wanted to shatter me.
"That’s pathetic!" he shouted. "Is this really the best the hybrid can do? No wonder you’re just a—"
Vladimir’s phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the arena, sharp and jarring.
He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted fractionally. Not much. But enough.
"Continue," he said simply, then turned and walked toward the ruins’ entrance, phone to his ear. Arlo followed without a word.
And just like that—he was gone.
The air changed immediately.
Konstantin’s grin turned feral.
"Well, well," he said slowly. "Looks like High Alpha has more important things to do than watch a hybrid get what she deserves."
"Konstantin," Sylvanna warned, lowering her throwing arm. "The test continues. The rules don’t change because—"
"The rules," Konstantin interrupted, "say we’re testing her. I’m just being thorough."
He grabbed another ball. Then another. Then another—loading both hands.
"Let’s see how much the mouthy little bitch can really take."
The first ball came so fast I barely registered it.
It slammed into my stomach—hard—driving the air from my lungs. I doubled over, choking, vision blurring.
The second hit my back while I was bent over. The third my thigh.
"Not so clever now, are you?" Konstantin snarled. "Not so fucking brave without your Alpha to protect you!"
>"I’m trying!" My wolf’s voice was strained. "But you’re panicking. I can’t—we’re not in sync—"
Another ball. My side. Then my shoulder again—the same spot, fresh agony on top of bruising pain.