Chapter 21
Anton
The SUV reeks of leather, the bags of groceries Dima insisted on stuffing in the back, and Mary’s shampoo. Something floral I can’t place, soft and clean, threading through the heavier smells. Doesn’t belong here.
She sits with her arms crossed like she’s on trial, lips pressed together so tight I half expect her teeth to crack.
“You know,” she mutters finally, staring out the window, “most people text before showing up at a seventy-three-year-old woman’s house with… I don’t know, groceries.”
Lev twists around from the front seat, grin wide. “We brought eggs too.”
“Yeah,” she shoots back without looking at him. “That makes it fine.”
Boris doesn’t glance up from the tablet in his lap. “Texts don’t make omelets.”
Lev snorts, pleased with himself. Mary whirls on him, hazel eyes sparking.
“You can’t just— Ugh.” She sinks back against the seat, cheeks flushed.
Boris chuckles under his breath, shaking his head.
I don’t say a damn thing. Because I’m busy watching her.
Not the way I usually watch—calculated, assessing threat vectors, noting the angle of her spine, where she’s carrying tension.
This is different. She’s not shrinking anymore.
Not scared silent. She’s biting back, showing teeth, snapping at Lev like she belongs in this car.
For a breath, it unsettles me. Then it settles in, like gravity I can’t fight. Heat coils low, steady, dangerous. She should be terrified of me, of them, of the whole damn picture. Instead, she leans closer to the fire. Closer to us.
Lev’s got the wheel this time, Dima riding shotgun. Which leaves Mary pressed against the window in the back, Boris jammed between us with his tablet propped on his knees. She looks trapped but not scared—annoyed, twitching with too much energy to keep her mouth shut.
“So,” she says finally, eyes cutting from me to Lev’s reflection in the rearview. “What exactly are we training today?”
Lev grins at her in the mirror. “Depends. You want the fun version or the terrifying version?”
“Neither,” she says flatly. “I want the normal version. Preferably one that doesn’t involve anyone pulling a knife.”
“Then it won’t be normal,” Boris mutters, thumbs flicking over his screen.
Mary groans. “Okay, then why do all of you need to come? Isn’t this a one-teacher, one-student situation?”
Lev barks a laugh. “What? You think we’d miss this? Dima’s been dying for entertainment all week.”
Dima doesn’t even look up. “I don’t die for anything.”
Boris smirks. “He does, however, kill for entertainment.”
Mary blinks. “Not comforting, Boris.”
He shrugs like that’s her problem.
Lev drums his fingers on the steering wheel, tone sing-song. “Truth is, we’re all here to witness history. The day Mary Sullivan throws her first punch.”
“I’ve thrown punches before,” she snaps, bristling.
“At pillows,” Boris deadpans.
She shoots him a glare hot enough to peel paint. “At… at my imaginary enemies. Way more intimidating than pillows.”
That gets Lev grinning like a maniac. “Now we’re talking. Who won?”
Mary mutters, “They were invisible. You do the math.”
Lev almost chokes laughing, swerving the SUV. “Jesus, sweetheart, no wonder you lost.”
I watch all of it. The way she snaps, bites, argues without thinking. She doesn’t realize what it means, how dangerous it is that she’s stopped holding back.
And maybe I shouldn’t like it. But I do.
“Where exactly are we going?” she demands, turning back to me.
A streetlight catches her face as we pass under it, throwing gold across her cheekbones, making her eyes look like fire.
Boris sits between us, focused on his laptop, completely oblivious to the fact that I want to reach across him and kiss that smart mouth until she stops asking questions I can’t answer.
“Training,” I say, keeping my voice level.
She takes a deep breath, like my answer isn’t what she wants to hear.
“Training what, exactly?”
“Self-defense.”
She blinks. “I thought we covered this. I know how to shoot now. Sort of.”
“Friday’s four days away,” I tell her. “Guns won’t help if someone gets close enough to grab you.”
The humor drains from her face. Reality settling in like cold water.
But she doesn’t fold. Doesn’t go quiet and small like she used to. Instead, she squares her shoulders and nods.
“Okay. Teach me.”
“Rule one,” I say, circling her on the gym mat, boots heavy on the rubber. “Forget fair. Fair gets you dead.”
Mary pivots, tracking me, her leggings hugging every lush curve, shirt tight over her breasts, her body screaming defiance like she’s prey ready to bite. Her vanilla-floral scent—soft, too damn soft—cuts through the gym’s stale sweat, making my cock twitch.
“If some bastard grabs you,” I say, “you’ve got seconds before he drags you somewhere worse.
Don’t think. Fucking destroy him.” I step behind her fast, chest pressing her back, arms wrapping her waist, pinning her tight against me.
Her heat seeps through her shirt, lush ass grinding my groin, and fuck, I’m hard, straining against my pants.
She makes a sound—low, instinctive, not even words. “Hmmm…”
It kills me. Goes straight to my cock, like she’s enjoying the trap.
“This is how they’ll take you,” I say, lips brushing her ear, her scent flooding my lungs. “Too close for guns. Too tight to run.”
Her breath catches, body stiff but not scared, curves trembling against me.
“What do I do?” she asks, voice breathless, daring.
“Everything that hurts,” I say, hands splaying over her stomach, fingers digging into soft flesh.
Her lashes flicker. I feel it, her heartbeat hammering under my touch. She tilts her head just enough that her cheek brushes mine; deliberate or not, I don’t know, but it feels like she’s testing me, testing how far I’ll let this go.
“Elbows, heels, head. Use it all.” I guide her elbow back, slow, showing the strike, her hair grazing my jaw, tempting me to bury my face in it.
“Like this?” She shifts, ass grinding harder against my cock, deliberate, and I bite back a groan, heat coiling low.
Jesus Christ.
“Fucking harder,” I say, voice rough, grip tightening on her waist. “Don’t hold back, Mary.”
She drives her elbow back, real force now, the impact vibrating through us. Her curves press deeper, and I’m losing it, her scent drowning me.
Blyat, focus.
“Better,” I say, fingers flexing, wanting to rip those leggings off. “Now stomp. Find my instep and break it.”
She shifts, raising her heel, arching her body, lush hips rubbing me raw. “Here?” Her heel hovers over my boot.
“Do it.”
She slams her heel down hard, making me grunt. Her sound—half triumph, half thrill—nearly snaps my control.
She spins in my arms, hands slamming my chest, our bodies flush, her lips parted, breath hot. “I hurt you!”
“You’re supposed to,” I say, hands sliding to her hips, digging in, making her gasp. “That’s the whole point.”
Her tongue darts across her bottom lip. “What if they grab me from the front?”
I should step back. Instead, I grip her hips more firmly, fingers digging in just enough to make her breath hitch.
Lev laughs from the wall, knife sheath glinting. “Shit, boss, you training her or seducing her?”
Mary’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t back off, eyes locked on mine.
“Shut it, Lev,” she snaps, bold, like she owns this mat.
Boris snorts from his bench, muttering, “She’s got claws now,” his tablet forgotten.
Dima, by the door, tilts his head, watching, a rare smirk tugging his lips, like he sees her fire.
“Show me,” I say, voice dark, pulling her closer. She presses her palms to my throat, thumbs on my pulse, and I feel it—her strength, her fight, changing me, softening me.
“Now what?” she whispers, breath hot against my jaw.
“Knee his balls, watch him drop,” I say, but we’re frozen, her hands on my throat, my fingers digging into her flesh, the air thick with want. I want to pin her down, taste her, but I hold still, barely.
“Leave ‘em alone, Lev,” Boris calls, smirking. “They’re about to wrestle naked.”
The door slams shut. Their footsteps fade, echoing down the hall. They’ve walked out. Left us here. Just the two of us, the silence heavier than the stink of sweat and mats.
Mary grins boldly, and flips the script, shoving me back, her strength surprising, dropping me to the mat.
“Again,” she says, voice daring, straddling my hips, her curves pressing my cock, making me groan. “Show me more.”
I growl, the sound ripping out before I can stop it. My hands grasp her thighs, instinct screaming to flip her, pin her under me, remind her this is my game.
But fuck, it’s hard to think with my cock straining, her lush hips grinding against me, her blouse—half-unbuttoned from the grapple—gaping open, revealing sweat-slicked skin, her lush breasts heaving under a thin bra.
“You’re killing me, malyshka,” I hiss, trying to focus, but her scent’s in my lungs, her curves in my hands, and my head’s losing the fight. She looks up at me, a pink blush spreading across her cheeks, eyes sparking.
“What’s wrong, bad boy?” she teases, voice low, playful. “Can’t handle me?” Her blouse slips wider, sweat glistening between her breasts, and I’m done, my cock aching, every thought blurring.
I lean in, close the gap, and kiss her, slow, sensual, lips brushing hers, soft at first, then harder, tongue sliding against hers, tasting her heat, her breath mixing with mine in a slick, hungry dance.
Her moan vibrates against my mouth, low, needy, and I deepen the kiss, tongue stroking, hands sliding down her sides to her hips. Her lips are soft, wet, yielding, and it’s the hottest damn thing, like she’s pouring herself into me, fearless, bold, not the girl who flinched at shadows.
She laughs, a sudden, bright sound, straightening up and straddling me again, her pink-blushed face glowing, laughter spilling, wild, free.
“Got you,” she says, cheeky, leaning down, her blouse open, sweat-slicked curves tempting.
My heart kicks hard, not just from arousal; something shifts, cracks open, seeing her like this, laughing, alive, owning this moment. I’m fucked, not just wanting her body but her fire, her fight.
“Damn, malyshka,” I say, voice rough, hands sliding to her ass, squeezing through her leggings. “You’re playing dirty now.” I pull her closer, kissing her again, lips hungry, tongue delving, the heat of her mouth pulling me under.
“Keep laughing like that, and I’ll lose it,” I say, half-warning, half-promise, my cock throbbing against her.
She shifts her weight and leans forward. “Maybe I want you to lose it.”