The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven novel Chapter 166

Chapter 166: First Physical Training

Meredith.

The week Draven gave me to rest had vanished as quickly as spilt water drying under the sun.

And now, standing at the centre of the training grounds, wrapped in the black combat clothes he’d gifted me, I realized rest had only left my nerves with more time to twist themselves into knots.

The morning sun hadn’t fully warmed the stone yet. The air felt fresh against my skin, but my palms were slick with sweat, making the wooden practice sword shift uneasily in my grip.

Draven stood a few paces away with folded arms. And his gaze, fixed on me, was calm, watchful, and heavy.

Dennis lounged a few meters behind, perched on a low branch of a tree, looking as relaxed as if he had wandered down just to watch the sunrise. A familiar smirk tugged at his lips.

All thanks to Draven taking the lead in giving me a week’s worth of break, I didn’t have to continue my driving lessons as Dennis followed in his steps.

Besides, according to Dennis, I had learned more than enough from our driving lessons and only needed to drive a car from point A to point B once or twice a week, just to retain the knowledge and memories.

"Try not to stab yourself," Dennis called. "Or him."

"Quiet," Draven cut in, his voice sharp as a blade. He hadn’t even turned his head.

Dennis lifted both hands in mock surrender, but the smirk stayed.

"Show me your stance," Draven ordered.

I swallowed, adjusted my feet as he’d shown me days ago: left foot forward, knees bent, weight balanced across the balls of my feet.

Draven stepped closer, his shadow brushing my boots. His gaze swept me head to toe, cold and precise.

"You are stiff," he murmured. "Loosen your shoulders. You can’t fight if you are frozen."

I exhaled, shoulders dropping despite the tightness coiling through my chest.

"And your grip," he continued. "Hold it like you mean it — not like you’re throttling it."

My fingers relaxed, then tightened again, searching for that balance.

"Swing," he commanded.

I lifted the sword and swung. Clumsy. The tip dipped at the end, pulling the momentum off.

He stopped me with a single raised hand. "Again," he said. "From the shoulder, not the elbow."

I tried again. And again.

Each time, his correction came: "Too high." "Too low." "Too slow."

Frustration burned hotter than the sun overhead. My heart pounded, breaths turning sharp.

Dennis’s voice floated in. "She’s going to murder that practice dummy any minute."

"I can hear you, you know," I snapped over my shoulder, breathless.

"Focus," Draven’s voice cut through, quiet but commanding.

I wondered why he was scolding me alone and not including his brother.

"Ah!" A scream tore through my throat. I was frustrated.

We moved on to footwork: side steps, pivot turns, and short lunges. Draven demonstrated each one, and even in the simplest move, he was fluid, coiled strength under control.

I tried to copy the steps, but my feet felt wrong — heavy, unsure. My toes scuffed the ground, throwing me off balance.

"Keep your back heel lifted," Draven instructed, stepping behind me. His hand brushed my hip, nudging it slightly. "Weight forward. Move from here."

His touch was light, impersonal, but it sent heat rushing up my neck anyway.

After another series of swings, he took the sword from my hands, flipped it, and offered it back hilt-first.

"You are fighting your own weapon," he said. "Trust your arms. Let the weight do the work."

I clenched my jaw. "It feels heavier every time."

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