Chapter 5
Anton
The gym smells of sweat and gun oil. Bare concrete floors, steel racks of weapons, heavy bags lined up in a row. Harsh overhead lights hum, buzzing against the silence.
Not exactly welcoming. Which is the point.
And then… Mary.
She freezes in the doorway with Dima behind her, clutching her bag like it’s armor, wide, amber-flecked eyes darting between the punching bags and the rows of rifles locked against the wall. Out of her depth, and she knows it.
She edges forward; two steps, no more. Her gaze lands on me.
And she does it—she smiles. Small. Nervous.
For half a second, I feel my own mouth twitch, like my body didn’t get the memo that I don’t do smiling. I shut it down fast.
My eyes drag over her anyway. The clothes.
Tight, clingy. The curve of her waist. The way those pants hug her ass like a fucking spotlight. My cock stirs instantly, traitorous, and it takes every ounce of discipline not to adjust myself in plain view of my men.
Chyort.
Lev pushes off the wall, grinning widely when he sees Mary.
“Boss, did we order a yoga instructor? Because this one looks ready to teach us downward dog.”
She blinks, glances down at herself. Fingers tug at the hem of her top, like it might grow longer if she pulls hard enough.
“I didn’t… pick this,” she murmurs. Small. Almost apologizing. “Boris packed it.”
Lev laughs loud, delighted. “Perfect.”
Dima stalks into the space behind her, already changed from this morning’s work on Viktor. Long sleeves now—black, fitted. The kind that hug every ridge of muscle across his chest and shoulders. He rolls his neck, cracks his knuckles.
“Ready?” Dima asks Lev.
“Always.”
They don’t waste time on warm-ups. Lev throws the first punch—hard, fast. Dima ducks, comes up with an uppercut that would crack ribs.
They dance around each other like wolves, all brutal grace and controlled violence.
Fists connect with wet smacks. Grunts. The sound of air getting punched from lungs.
Mary sucks in a sharp breath. Her teeth catch her lower lip, biting down. Color floods her cheeks as she watches them. All that masculine power on display, sweat starting to gleam on skin, muscles shifting under fabric.
Her weight shifts, foot to foot. She looks at me—quick, nervous. Like she’s waiting for me to fix this somehow.
I don’t. My jaw locks. Because all I want is to rip those pants off and bend her over the nearest bench.
My balls tighten with the image of her last night—wanting, begging. The way she looked spread beneath me, all that soft skin flushed and trembling.
I clench my jaw and turn around, pretending to inspect a rack of assault rifles like they’re the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen. Because standing here with a hard-on while my men beat the shit out of each other isn’t exactly the intimidating boss image I’m going for.
Behind me, the wet smack of knuckles meeting flesh continues. Grunts. The shuffle of feet on concrete.
I hear her footsteps—soft, hesitant. Getting closer.
“I…” Her voice is right behind me now. “What should I do now?”
I turn. She’s close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo over the gym’s sweat and oil. Those amber eyes look up at me, waiting.
God, she’s beautiful. Her lips slightly swollen from last night, making them look plump and soft. Her cheeks flush rosy from the heat in the gym. Or maybe from watching my men beat the hell out of each other.
Before I can answer, Lev stops mid-punch and walks toward her.
“Come here, printsessa,” he flirts. “Don’t be shy.”
My fingers curl around the gun rack. Lev guides her toward the center of the space, his hand hovering just above the small of her back. Not touching. But close enough.
Mary swallows. She risks another glance at me, quick as a flinch, then down again. Like she wants to bury herself in the floor. Like last night is painted all over her skin, and she knows I can see it.
My cock stirs, remembering exactly how soft that skin feels.
Lev keeps going, “So, you like our little playground?”
“It’s…” She looks around, takes in the weapons, the bloodstains on the mats that never quite wash out. “Intense.”
“We like intense.” Lev grins. “Tell me, have you ever worked out before? Hit a gym?”
She shakes her head, quick. “I couldn’t afford a membership. I tried running a couple of times, but…” She shrugs, embarrassed. “I’m not very good at it. Made it maybe three blocks before I thought my lungs were going to explode.”
Lev chuckles. Dima drops his guard, left standing there with no one to hit, sweat dripping from his hair.
And there it is. The reason she couldn’t even get Evan off her. No strength, no training. Just soft curves and wide eyes and zero fight in her.
She doesn’t fit here. Should be standing in line at a market, arguing over peaches. Or curled up in bed with that cat. Not in a fucking training hall with guns staring her down.
But she’s here. And keeping her alive is on me.
I reach for a compact Glock 19 from the rack. “Start with this.” I check the chamber, make sure it’s empty, then hold it out to her. “Basic rule: never point it at anything you don’t want to destroy.”
Her fingers brush mine when she takes it. She holds it like it might bite her. Her hands shake.
“It’s heavier than I thought.”
“Good. Means it’s real.” I step closer. “Your grandmother’s life depends on you knowing how to use this. Yours, too.”
Something shifts in her face. The fear doesn’t go away, but something else settles underneath it. Determination, maybe.
“I want to learn.” Her voice is stronger now. “I want to learn how to protect myself.”
Dima wipes sweat from his face with his sleeve, walks over.
“We start slow.” Dima’s voice drops soft. Softer than I’ve ever heard it outside a funeral. Not for me. For her.
Chyort. Even he’s adjusting for her.
Lev nods, that cocky grin replaced with something serious.
“Feet apart. Like this.” He shows her the stance, patient as a teacher.
And I watch my men—killers, both of them—treat her like she’s made of glass. Gentle corrections. Quiet encouragement. Like they’ve done this before.
Like they give a shit whether she makes it out of this alive.
Maybe they do.
Something in my chest tightens. I move forward before I can think about it, my hand closing around Mary’s wrist.
“Come on,” I say, pulling her toward me. “Real practice happens in the soundproof range.”
Her eyes widen at the sudden contact, but she doesn’t pull away. Just lets me guide her across the floor. My hand slides lower, settling at the small of her back. Warm. Soft. Fits too fucking well under my palm.
Lev and Dima go completely still.
I catch the look that passes between them. Quick. Knowing. Like they’re seeing something they’ve never seen before.
Their boss giving a shit about keeping someone alive who isn’t blood.
Dima’s mouth quirks. “Boss usually just tells people to figure it out themselves.”
“Or shoots them,” Lev adds helpfully.
“Not funny,” I grunt.
They smirk anyway. Because they’re right. I don’t do hand-holding. Don’t do soft. Yet here I am, steering Mary like she’s spun silk.
We cross the floor, and I can feel their eyes still on me. It burns on my shoulders, but I don’t shake them off. Let them look.
I push the range door open. It groans loudly, heavy steel scraping.
The air inside is colder, metallic, sharp with burned powder.
Ghosts of blood and cordite cling to the padded walls.
Target sheets hang in rows, pockmarked with holes, blackened around the edges like cigarette burns.
A bucket of brass casings glints in the corner—bones of old lessons.
Mary stops dead in the doorway, clutching the Glock like it might explode.
“I, um…” She glances between me and the gun, then toward the hallway. “Could I use the restroom? Just for a minute?”
“Down the hall, second door on the left,” I tell her.
She nods quickly and practically bolts.
The second she’s gone, Lev settles against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Well,” he says. “That was fucking adorable.”
“She ran,” Dima observes.
“Can you blame her? Our boy here was practically purring.”
“I don’t purr.”
“Sure you don’t.” Lev’s grin turns wicked. “You know what she looks like? A little lamb who wandered into a pack of wolves. And instead of eating her,” he gestures at me, “we’re housebreaking her. Like she’s already part of the pack.”
My eye twitches. Just once. Enough to make Lev smirk wider, because he knows I hate the sound of that. Part of the pack. As if she belongs here.
Dima nods slowly. “She’s soft. Needs protecting.”
“From everything,” Lev agrees. “Including us.”
“Especially us,” I correct.
“But she’s not really running,” Dima points out. “Could have. Many times. But she stays.”
“She’s got nowhere else to go.”
“No,” Lev says, studying me. “She’s got somewhere to go. She just doesn’t want to anymore.”
Before I can tell him he’s full of shit, Mary reappears in the doorway.
But something’s changed.
Her hair is swept up in a high bun, secured with a hair tie. A few strands frame her face. Her sleeves are pushed up. She looks… ready.
“Sorry,” she says, walking back with more confidence than before. “I needed a moment.”
Lev and Dima exchange a look. They’re hovering now, like kids watching a show they’re not supposed to see.
“Much better,” Lev murmurs appreciatively.
“Very practical,” Dima adds.
“Out,” I tell them.
“But, boss—”
“Out.”
Lev holds up his hands in surrender. “Come on, big guy. We know when we’re not wanted.”
They head for the door, but not before Lev shoots me one last grin. “Play nice, boss. She bites back now.”
Then it’s just Mary and me. And the loaded silence between us.
“Now,” I say, stepping behind her. “Let’s see if we can keep you alive.”
I pull hearing protection off the wall, hand it to her, then fit my own over my ears. “Put those on. It’s going to be loud.”
She fumbles with them, sliding the muffs over her head. The oversized plastic makes her look small, out of place. Still clutching the Glock like it’s a live snake, her hands tremble.
I step behind her again, correcting her stance. Feet apart. Knees loose. Shoulders square. “Thumbs forward,” I murmur against her ear. “Both hands. Support hand wraps around.”
She follows, awkward but willing. The gun wobbles in her grip, not steady yet. “Now breathe. Let half out. Hold.” My hands guide hers toward the target.
“See that center mass? That’s what you aim for.”
“The heart?” she asks, tentative.
“Center mass. Biggest target. Stops the threat.”
“Right. Stop the threat.”
“Squeeze straight back. Don’t jerk it.”
I wait. But nothing happens. Her knuckles whiten. The Glock twitches slightly in her grip, but her finger doesn’t move.
Her voice is small, breaking through the muffs. “I… I’m not sure I can.”
Her shoulders are quivering, tension locked in every muscle. I lean closer, my chest brushing her back, my mouth near her ear.
“Don’t think about the gun. Think about them. The ones who came for you. The ones who would’ve killed your grandmother in her bed. The ones who put their hands on you.”
Her brows draw tight, eyes narrowing on the target. Fire sparks where fear was.
“You’re not weak, Mary,” I whisper. “Not with me.”
Something shifts. Her breath stutters, then steadies. Her finger presses the trigger.
The Glock cracks, the recoil jolts through her arms. The shot punches into the paper—not center, but close enough.
Her chest heaves. She stares at the hole like she can’t believe it’s there. “I… I did it.”
“Again.”
For the next hour, she does. I load magazines for her, show her how to rack the slide, how to lock it back, and drop it forward again. She listens, learns. Her stance steadies. Her grip tightens. Shots cluster closer to the center.
When she puts three into the nine-ring in a row, I nod. “Better.”
“I’m actually not terrible at this.”
“No. You’re not.”
She sets the Glock on the counter, turning to face me. Close. Too close. Sweat dampens her hairline, and her eyes are sharp with something new: resolve.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“For what?”
“For this. For… caring whether I make it out alive.”
Something twists in my chest. Before I can stop myself, my hand comes up, cupping her cheek. Her skin is soft, warm under my palm.
“Remember this,” I murmur, thumb rough on her cheekbone. “Fear isn’t a stop sign. It’s a sightline. You aim down it and you shoot. Save mercy for after you’re safe.”
She swallows, leans into my hand for a heartbeat, then pulls back and wipes sweat from her temple with the back of her wrist.
“Erm…” She tries for a small smile, eyes flicking up to mine. “Anton?”
“Yeah?”
“I… I need to go to the pharmacy later. For… personal things.”
My eyes narrow.
“What kind of personal things?”
Color floods her cheeks.
“Girl things. Nothing dramatic.”
“I’ll take you.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’ll take you,” I repeat, firmer this time. I step in closer until she has to tilt her chin to hold my gaze. “You don’t go anywhere alone. Period.”
The words hang there, not a suggestion. A rule.
Her breath catches. “Anton—”
“Non-negotiable.”
She exhales, defeated but not angry. “Fine,” she says quietly. Then, softer: “Thank you.”
“Good,” I grunt in response, because what the hell am I supposed to say to that?
We stare at each other. Her pulse is visible at her throat, quick and fluttering. I want to press my thumb against it, feel how fast her heart’s beating.
I don’t.
Instead, I step back, putting distance between us before I do something stupid.
Then Boris’s voice echoes from the gym.
“Food’s here! And I’m eating it all if you don’t move your asses!”
Mary blinks, the spell broken. But there’s still color in her cheeks when she looks at me.
“Food sounds good,” she says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It does.” I take the Glock from the bench, lock the slide back, then slide it into the side compartment of my gun bag. The zipper hums closed—clean, final. I sling the strap over my shoulder and reach for the door.
She slips past when I hold it open, eyes darting up to mine like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to smile.
I don’t give her anything back.
Because I can’t afford to.
She isn’t here to stay. She was bait. Then a liability. Now, a witness who knows too much and doesn’t even realize it. People like that get you killed if you let them. They don’t mean to. They just do.
I know how to handle problems: apply pressure until they break the way you want. People are unpredictable, but they all have levers. Fear. Pride. Hunger. Guilt. You find the lever and you move them. That’s the job.
I tell myself I’ll do the same with her; keep the guardrails tight, keep the boundaries tighter. Train her enough to survive, then keep her out of the way until this is over. Ignore the rest.
I can do that. I know I can.