Page 46 of Bullied Forced Omega

I feel her pulse beneath my hand. The blood in her veins. The stretch of her lungs.

“Slowly let it out. Slow. Good girl. Again.”

Standing with her in the open morning air, she takes several deep breaths.

“Oh wow, that worked so well,” she says, her body relaxing again.

“Now you know what to do next time,” I say, clearing my throat and stepping away from her, my body hyped up and my wolf agitated by her scent.

“Race you there?” she grins, a cheek flash in her eyes.

“Race?” Before I have a chance to ask her if she’s joking, she’s taken off at her version of full speed and is sprinting for the tree line.

Laughter bubbles from me.

She is fully aware that she doesn’t stand a chance against me, but I love the games.

Sprinting after her, I catch up in a matter of seconds. She squeals in frustration and pushes harder. I stay right at her side, encouraging her, not letting her stop until we get to the edge of the arena.

Mira collapses against a tree, gasping for air, grinning, glowing, and happy.

For each of our private sessions, we jog there and back again. And over each session, she is getting stronger and better.

It’s been two weeks since we started adding in extra training, and I’ve already noticed massive improvements in her.

That, and we’re getting on better at home.

She’s letting me closer to her, dropping her guard a little around me. We have our routine apart. But when we’re together, things are relaxed, and I really enjoy being around her. She seems to enjoy being around me, too.

It’s another Sunday training session.

Her shoes scuff against the soil. She groans and pushes hard into my hand.

“Good, now spin and lift your elbow, you’re aiming for my jaw,” I tell her.

She huffs, jumps, and spins. Her elbow skims my jaw as I lean back just in time.

“Fuck,” I laugh. “That was much closer than last time!”

She grins, proud of herself.

Mira bends down to pick up her water bottle, taking a few long sips. She lets out a breath and shakes her head, holding up her hand. “I realized something,” she explains, setting the bottle down again.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“You told me to kick off my left foot, like this. Then to use my core to push myself higher, right?”

“Right,” I agree, knitting my brows.

“But, if I first put my weight onto my thigh, and kick off from there, using my quad to push me up, I get higher.”

“It’s not the right way to do the move,” I remark, confused why she’s trying to tell me how to do something I trained for years to perfect.

“Well, it’s the right way for me to do the move,” she tilts her head to the side and puts her hands on her hips, challenging me to correct her again.

I narrow my eyes. “I see,” I smirk.

This isn’t the first time she’s questioned me or made me explain exactly why something has to be a certain way.