"You're doing it again," I said, dropping my arms.
Damon pulled up sharp, the heel of his boot squeaking against the wood floor. He stood with his weight shifted slightly off his taped shoulder, his dark hair damp with sweat.
"I kept the line," he said, breathing hard.
"You threw me through it," I countered. "Every time we enter the reverse spin, you brace your core like you're taking a hit in the cage. You're trying to muscle me through the turn so I don't catch your injured side."
"If you catch the joint, we drop," he said, his jaw tightening. "I'm protecting your leverage."
"You're bulldozing it. Dancing isn't combat, Damon. The moment you use force to protect me, you drag my hips out of alignment and kill the momentum. You have to wait for my cue."
Damon stared down at me. An Alpha of his rank wasn't used to waiting on anyone, let alone yielding control of physical momentum to an Omega.
"I don't know when your weight shifts until it's already moving," he muttered.
"Because you're watching with your eyes," I said, stepping right up to his chest. "Close them."
A flicker of dark wariness crossed his face. "Excuse me?"
"Close your eyes," I repeated firmly. "You survived the border because you read intent before a blade even moved. Stop watching my feet. Feel my breath, feel the pressure in my fingertips, and follow where I take you."
He hesitated for three long seconds. Then, slowly, the heavy fringe of his lashes fell shut against his scarred cheekbones.
The auxiliary studio felt instantly smaller.
I stepped into his personal space, sliding my right hand up to rest lightly against the nape of his neck, carefully avoiding the medical tape binding his collarbone. I placed my left hand flat against the side of his ribs, just beneath his heart.
"Don't push," I murmured. "Just listen."
I took a slow, deliberate inhale. Beneath my palm, his broad chest expanded in sync.
I shifted my weight back onto my left heel. My fingertips pressed slightly against his ribs, tilting his frame an inch to the left. Damon didn't fight it. He followed the microscopic cue, his uninjured shoulder dropping naturally into the pocket of space I created.
"One," I whispered, sliding forward.
He moved with me, blind and entirely anchored to my touch.
"Two."
I pushed through the ball of my foot, rotating on my axis. Instead of forcing the turn with brute strength, Damon let my momentum pull him around. The arc was effortless. Clean, silent, and balanced. For the first time, the lethal Alpha wasn't leading a charge—he was following an Omega's rhythm.
Then the backlash hit.
Without warning, a cold, violent tearing sensation ripped through the center of my chest.
It was the fractured mate bond.
Three years of Cole’s scent, promises, and shared pack vows didn't just vanish because he handed my routine to my sister. The sudden biological rejection flared through my veins like liquid glass, seizing my lungs in a brutal cramp.
My knee buckled instantly. The beat shattered.
I gasped, tumbling sideways toward the floor.
Damon’s eyes snapped open. Moving on raw predator instinct, his arms whipped around me, his powerful hands locking onto my waist to catch my dead weight before I hit the boards.
The heat of his grip was crushing, suffocating me while my chest felt like it was breaking in half.
"Stop!" I gasped out, the word clawing out of my throat. "Stop—let go!"
Any other Alpha would have tightened his hold, demanding to know what was wrong or carrying me to a bench.
Damon released me the exact fraction of a second the command left my lips.
His hands vanished from my waist instantly. Instead of clutching me, he extended his uninjured left forearm, offering a rigid, horizontal bar of muscle. I grabbed it with both hands, using his arm strictly as a handrail to keep myself upright while I dragged air back into my starved lungs.
He didn't pull me close. He didn't tell me to sit. He stood entirely motionless, bearing my trembling weight without dictating whether the drill was over.
"Breathe," he said quietly, his voice low and steady. "I've got the floor."
I pressed my forehead against his cool forearm, letting the fire in my chest slowly subside to a dull ache.
Before I could straighten up, the studio door banged open against the wall.
"How touching," a sharp, familiar voice drawled.
Vanessa stood in the doorway, wearing her matching lavender warm-up suit, her hair tied in an immaculate high ponytail. Cole stood half a step behind her, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes darkening the second he saw me leaning on Damon.
I pushed away from Damon's arm, smoothing down my tank top as I turned to face them.
"You're in my reserved rehearsal block," I said, keeping my voice flat.
"We don't need your studio, Ivy," Vanessa said, stepping inside with that polished, effortless posture she used when performing. "We need the final eight-count sequence."
I looked at her, genuinely stunned by the audacity. "What?"
"The dismount from the overhead press," Vanessa said, walking toward us as if she owned the room. "The pacing on the regional track accelerates right before the finale. Cole and I tried running the landing this morning, but the center drops too fast. You never wrote down the footwork transitions for the final eight beats in your choreography notebook."
"Because I kept them in my head," I said, a cold edge creeping into my voice. "And they're staying there."
Vanessa let out an exasperated sigh, looking at Cole before turning back to me with a patronizing tilt of her head.
"Be reasonable, Ivy," Vanessa said smoothly. "Ashwood’s reputation is on the line next week. You can't let personal drama jeopardize the pack’s championship. Sisters don't sabotage each other over a man."
"A man?" I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Is that what you think this is? You went behind my back, took eighteen months of my sweat, and walked onto the floor claiming my sweat was yours. You didn't just take a man, Vanessa. You took my work."
"I took the spot you couldn't carry," Vanessa shot back, her mask slipping slightly. "Your scent is a distraction. Cole needed stability, and I gave it to him. If you actually cared about this pack, you wouldn't be hoarding the final sequence."
She swept an arrogant, dismissive hand toward Damon.
"Look at you," Vanessa sneered. "Parading around with a crippled border guard just to make Cole jealous. It's pathetic, Ivy. You're using an injured Alpha to nurse your bruised ego, and everyone in the Grand Hall is laughing at you."
Cole stepped forward, his eyes locking onto mine with heavy, demanding certainty.
"Give her the counts, Ivy," Cole commanded, his Alpha voice rumbling low in his chest. "Stop this foolishness. You're humiliating yourself, and you're humiliating me. Hand over the choreography, and I might still consider letting you sit in the pack box during the finals."
For a second, the room fell dead silent.
Damon didn't roar. He didn't step in front of me like a shield, and he didn't bark insults back at Cole. He gave me the floor entirely.
I looked Cole dead in his eyes.
"The final eight counts," I said clearly, "belong to me. If your new Beta partner wants to land that dismount, tell her to build her own damn transition."
Vanessa's face flushed crimson with rage. "You selfish little—"
Damon moved.
He didn't lunge. He simply stepped forward into my space, his heavy cedar scent instantly obliterating the faint trace of Cole's lingering pheromones in the room. He didn't touch me roughly, and he didn't grab my waist.
With measured, deliberate precision, Damon lifted his uninjured hand and brought it to rest lightly on my hip, right where I had placed it before the music stopped.
He looked over my head, locking his cold, predatory gaze directly on Cole.
"She tells me where my hands go," Damon said softly.
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Cole’s breath caught, his entire posture freezing. For three years, he had operated under the absolute, unchallenged privilege that my body, my space, and my loyalty were his by default. No other wolf had ever dared to lay a hand on my waist in front of him.
I didn't flinch away from Damon. I didn't step back.
Instead, I met Damon’s dark eyes and gave him a single, resolute nod.
"From beat five," I said to Damon, deliberately turning my back on Cole and Vanessa. "Count it out."
Cole’s face drained of all color as he watched his default privilege vanish into thin air, shut out completely by the Omega who had finally stopped looking back.