<h4>Chapter 226: Combat With Dennis</h4>


    <strong><i>Meredith.</i></strong>


    The shrill ring of my phone pierced through the heavy veil of sleep, dragging me from the depths of dreand.


    My hand iled across the bed until it closed around the device. Eyes still squinting and mind foggy, I blinked at Dennis’s name on the screen.


    I slid the green button with a groggy swipe and brought the phone to my ear. "Hello?"


    A voice far too cheerful for this hour crackled through. "Good morning, mydy. Just wondering... why can’t I see you at the training grounds?"


    My eyes snapped open instantly.


    "You’re there already?" I croaked, bolting upright. My heart, previously in a peaceful rhythm, now raced like I was already mid-sprint.


    Dennisughed. "I had a feeling. You were still sleeping, weren’t you?"


    "I—!" I wanted to deny it, but lying was pointless. "I will be there in twenty minutes! Please don’t go anywhere!"


    "Where would I go? I’m your instructor now, remember?" He chuckled again before hanging up.


    I barely registered the end of the call before I threw the phone aside and scrambled out of bed.


    My bare feet hit the cold floor as I dashed into the bathroom like a woman on fire.


    The icy water jolted me into full wakefulness as I washed my face and brushed my teeth at what had to be record speed.


    There was no time for anything else—not even for Valmora to snark about my chaotic state.


    I slipped into my ckbat leggings and the fitted training top. It hugged my body just enough to move with ease, and I silently thanked myself for organizing my training gear ahead of time.


    Racing out of the bedroom, I flew down the first staircase, only to nearly collide head-on with Kira and Deidra at the bottomnding.


    "Mydy!" they both eximed in unison, nearly dropping the foldedundry they were carrying.


    "I’m fine! Morning!" I called over my shoulder, not even slowing my pace.


    "But—your hair—!"


    "Later!" I shouted back, bolting past the hallway arch and out into the open grounds.


    The crisp morning air stung my face, but it felt invigorating. The sky was painted in soft hues of rose and amber, the sun barely lifting past the trees.


    Birds chirpedzily above, unaware of the chaos below.


    All I could think of was not embarrassing myself on the very first day of training with Dennis. And not when Draven was probably going to ask how it went.


    <i>’Late. On your first day,’</i> I scolded myself mentally hoping that Dennis wouldn’t mind, as the training field came into view beyond the hedges.


    And there he was—Dennis—already shirtless, stretching casually beneath one of the trees that framed the dusty clearing.


    His tawny hair was pulled back, and he looked entirely too rxed for someone who was about to put me throughbat hell.


    He gazed up the moment I came tearing around the corner, his lips curving into an unrepentant grin.


    "Ah. Sleeping Beauty finally arrives."


    I was still catching my breath when Dennis tilted his head slightly and gave me that familiar grin that always managed to ride the line between charming and mischievous.


    "Well then," he said, dusting his hands. "Let’s not waste the early sun. Show me what my dear brother’s been teaching you. Let’s see if all that brooding musclees with actual technique."


    I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Alright."


    Stepping into the cleared space he indicated, I focused my breathing and positioned myself as Draven had taught me—one foot forward, knees bent, hands slightly open and rxed.


    I took a moment to center myself, letting my wolf stir faintly in the background, though Valmora said nothing. She was quiet, simply watching through my eyes.


    Dennis circled mezily, arms folded, as I ran through the sequences. I flowed through Draven’sbat forms—light jabs, side pivots, counter sweeps, and the spin-step kick I’d finally managed to perfect.


    The movement felt clean. Controlled.


    When I finished, Dennis gave a low whistle.


    "Not bad," he said, nodding. "You’ve got the structure down, I will give you that. But—" He stretched like a lounging cat, muscles shifting smoothly under his skin. "Let’s see what happens when the rules start bending."


    He dropped into stance in front of me, his eyes sharpening. "Come at me."


    I hesitated for a heartbeat, then lunged forward, aiming a quick jab at his shoulder. But he was already gone—stepping around me with such a smooth pivot that it didn’t register until I felt his breath near my neck from behind.


    I spun quickly, heart thudding.


    He was already three steps back, arms raised casually. "Faster," he grinned. "You will nevernd a hit if you don’t use your instincts."


    I charged again—this time mixing my strike with a faint feint to the left before redirecting right. He blocked it with his forearm and shifted, using only his foot to gently sweep mine, almost toppling me off-bnce—but not quite.


    I regained my footing and went low this time, aiming a sweep kick toward his knee.


    He jumped,nding lightly behind me like he’d weighed nothing at all. I barely had time to turn before his fingers tapped lightly against the base of my spine.


    "If I’d meant to strike, you’d be on the ground," he said smoothly.


    I stepped back, breathing harder now, annoyance prickling behind my ribs. "Are you going easy on me?"


    His eyes widened—mock offense, of course. "Me? Go easy? Never."


    Then, chuckling, he said, "I call it my personal teaching method. I don’t believe in bruises unless absolutely necessary. Draven likes to fight like he’s training a soldier. I, on the other hand—"


    He tapped his temple "—train for survival. Mind games, misdirection, anticipation. I’m not trying to make you tougher. I’m trying to make you unpredictable."


    "I’d rather know if I’m actually improving," I muttered, lifting my hands again.


    "You are." His tone turned sincere, even beneath the teasing grin. "You move quicker than most new fighters I’ve seen. You just need to sharpen your instincts. If you hesitate for even a second in battle, your opponent will control the rhythm. That’s what I’m teaching you."


    We circled again, and this time, I watched him closely. Dennis didn’t carry himself with the same intense, grounded stillness Draven did. He was fluid—like a breeze just out of reach.


    His footwork wasn’t brute strength—it was cleverness. Distraction. Everything about his movements whispered trickery.


    I struck again, aiming for his ribs. He leaned back smoothly, and with one hand, gently flicked my wrist mid-strike to redirect the motion—again, no hitnded. I gritted my teeth, frustrated and yet oddly energized.


    "You’re reading me," I said between breaths.


    "Of course I am," he grinned, feinting left then disappearing behind me again. "And you will learn to read me too—if you stop thinking and start feeling."


    Then—just as I turned—I saw his palming toward me. I braced instinctively, but he stopped an inch from my cheek. Not a single touch.


    But that was the lesson. He could have hit me. Again


    He dropped his hand. "And that, my dear Meredith, is the difference between reacting and predicting."


    I stared at him, heartbeat drumming wildly in my chest. A part of me wanted to scowl. Another part wanted to grin.


    Maybe both.


    Dennis winked. "Again?"