Phei sat in the merciless morning light, phone still clutched like evidence of his own inadequacy, and felt the weight settle on his chest like wet concrete.
She'd waited. Over two hours in that library, poured into black lace, wet and aching and his—and she'd waited.
Probably touched herself to pass the time, fingers circling slow, desperate, while she stared at the door that never opened.
Probably checked the handle every few minutes, hope dimming with each empty click.
Probably started making excuses for him long before she should have, because that's what a woman does when she loves someone who's let her down: she rewrites the disappointment so it fits.
And he'd been unconscious. Dead to the world. Useless.
Not out of choice. Not out of cruelty or indifference. Because his body was weak. Because seventeen years of stress, malnutrition, and sleepless nights had left him with the stamina of wet paper.
Because one day—brutal, relentless hours of sex—had drained him so completely he'd passed out before eleven like a child who'd missed naptime.
One day of claiming her, and his body demanded seven hours of recovery just to function. That ratio was pathetic. Embarrassing. The kind of weakness that branded you inadequate, not enough, incapable of delivering when it mattered most.
He stared at the screen, the messages glowing like accusations, and felt something cold and sharp twist in his gut.
He would not be weak again.
Not for her. Not for anyone.
He thought about her slipping back into that bed beside Harold. Thought about her lying there in the dark, still laced in black, skin cooling, wondering if she'd misread the hunger in his eyes. If he'd taken what he wanted and already started drifting, bored, indifferent.
The shame hit like a slow burn—hot in his throat, tight across his chest, a weight that crushed the air from his lungs.
He was supposed to be her man now. Her Dom. And the first time she'd reached out, the first time she'd bared her need and asked for him, he'd been too weak to stay conscious.
That couldn't happen again.
Ever.
Phei typed, fingers steady, no tremor. No groveling. A Dom didn't beg forgiveness.
Phei: Fell asleep. Won't happen again. Tonight.
Then, because she needed the line drawn in blood:
And the next time you apologize for my failure, I'll bend you over my knee until sitting becomes a problem. You did nothing wrong. We clear?
Sent.
Her reply came in seconds, sharp.
Yes. I understand. I'll be ready for you.
Good.
He tore off the covers and forced himself upright. Muscles screamed in protest, a low rebellion under his skin, skull throbbing with the dull punishment of stolen sleep. Every instinct clawed at him, dragging him back toward the mattress, whispering to vanish under the blanket and pretend the last seven hours had never happened.
Weak.
The word slithered through him, cold as a draft under the door.
Still weak. Still pathetic. Still the same disappointing shape you've always been.
There was a cure. At least in theory.
The Dragon Rise Routine. Three hours and twenty minutes of daily hell, engineered to grind him into something unbreakable. Yesterday he'd stared at the plan and told himself eventually. Told himself when I'm ready. Told himself next week.
No more someday. No more soft escapes.
He was starting today. Now. In fifteen minutes.
But first, clothes.
He crossed to the closet, already braced for the silence behind the doors.
The good gear waited at the condo—the athletic sets Melissa had insisted on, the running shoes that didn't collapse, the compression layers that hugged instead of sagged. All of it useless across town at 5:45 AM.
Here, he had the relics of the last five years.
Sweatpants that had once been Danton's, then downgraded to hand-me-down purgatory, now too short, too loose, elastic long dead. A t-shirt from some charity 5K Harold had run once and discarded because Harold never wore anything twice. Faded print, tissue-thin fabric, a tear widening near the collar.
Trainers that had died months ago—left sole peeling, heel worn to nothing, the ground already pressing through.
Nothing moisture-wicking. Nothing supportive. Just cotton that would soak through in minutes and chafe his skin raw in less than twenty.
He put them on anyway.
He had to cinch the drawstring until it bit into his hips. The t-shirt draped off him like borrowed skin. The trainers felt like stale bread.
He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror.
Those violet eyes—still unreal, still too sharp for the face they inhabited—stared back from a body that could be called lean if you were kind, underfed if you were honest. Wrapped in clothes that screamed donation bin detour.
This was the raw material. This was the starting point.
A Dragon on paper. A wreck in practice.
Remember this, he told himself. Memorize it.
This morning was the last time he'd see this shape in the mirror. The last day he'd be the man who couldn't stay awake when he was needed. The last time Melissa sat alone in a library, wet and aching, while he slept through the fact that she wanted him there.
5:58 AM.
The mansion's gym waited in the basement, past the wine cellar and the storage rooms where the Maxtons hoarded furniture too expensive to discard and too uninspired to display. Phei had only been down here a handful of times, always in the role he'd been assigned: fetch this, carry that, vanish when the real people arrived.
He flicked on the lights. The fluorescents snapped awake with a sterile buzz, illuminating rows of high-end equipment that gleamed with dust and neglect. Treadmills, squat racks, cable machines—all pristine because the Maxtons had always trusted good genetics over actual effort.
6:00 AM on the dot.
The system notification bloomed in his vision, cold and unyielding:
[DRAGON RISE ROUTINE - DAY 1]
[Stage 1: Morning Warrior Routine]
[Target: 50 push-ups, 50 sit-ups, 30 squats]
[Time limit: 20 minutes]
[Rewards: +1 Strength, +1 Endurance, +5 Points]
[Note: Host physical condition significantly below average. System recommends focusing on form over quantity. Failure is expected. Failure is growth.]
Fifty push-ups. Before breakfast. On his first day of training anything.
Phei stared at his reflection in the mirrored wall—skinny arms, concave chest, rags hanging off him like they were ashamed to touch him. He looked like a scarecrow that had wandered in from the wrong side of the tracks.
He thought about Melissa. About the audio message. About the way her voice had cracked on I just wanted to feel you again.
About being too weak to give her that.
He dropped to the floor, hands shoulder-width apart, and lowered himself into the first push-up.
His arms trembled like they might betray him at any second. His core felt like it was made of wet cardboard. But he pushed back up.
One.
The mirror showed exactly what he expected: a pathetic boy in borrowed clothes, struggling with the most basic movement in existence.
Two.
Triceps already burning. Shoulders screaming.
Three.
Somewhere inside this wreck was a Dragon the system kept insisting he could become. A version that didn't fall asleep when his woman needed him. A version that could protect what was his, take what he wanted, become more than the kicked dog Paradise had always seen.
Four.
That Dragon wouldn't emerge from wishing. Wouldn't materialize because a screen said so. It had to be forged. Dragged out of weakness through pain, repetition, and showing up when everything hurt.
Five.
His arms gave out. He collapsed onto the mat, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead like accusation.
Five push-ups. Out of fifty. Ten percent on the first attempt.
Pathetic.
5/50 push-ups completed Rest 30 seconds. Then continue. The Dragon does not quit. The Dragon adapts.
Phei lay there on the cold floor, breathing hard, muscles already screaming, dressed in clothes that didn't fit, feeling every inch of the distance between who he was and who he had to become.
But he was here. Awake. Working.
Not asleep when someone needed him.
Not unconscious while his woman waited.
When the thirty seconds ended, he pushed himself back into position.
Six.
Seven.
Arms shaking like they might snap. Form probably garbage. Tomorrow he'd be so sore he could barely move.
None of it mattered.
Eight.
What mattered was that he was doing it. Starting. Moving forward instead of staying still.
Nine.
What mattered was that tonight, when Melissa waited in that library, he would be there.
Ten.
Not asleep. Not weak. Not the version of himself who'd let her down.
The Dragon he was supposed to become.
One painful rep at a time.
****
A/N: I am about to gift myself FOR being so good since you guy won't! 😂😂😂