Chapter 30
Mary
Iwake before my alarm. For a second, I think it’s nerves. Then the wave hits—hot, rolling, mean.
I barely make it to the sink. Cold porcelain under my palms, water running, nothing in my stomach to throw up except air.
My reflection looks like someone I almost recognize. Cheekbones sharper. Eyes shadowed. My arms less soft than they used to be. Dima’s training has carved out faint lines in places I didn’t know had muscles.
It’s only been a few days since this “training” started. A few days since Anton decided I needed to know how to shoot, how to survive, how to stop being the kind of woman who apologizes when someone else steps on her foot.
Another gag comes fast, sharp, twisting up from somewhere deep. I lunge forward, gripping the edge of the sink hard enough that my knuckles go white. Still nothing. Just dry heaves and humiliation.
My eyes blur. Tears sting, spilling before I can blink them back. When I look up again, my reflection wavers through the glassy film—like I’m watching someone else’s life through fogged-up glass.
The boys told me that after tonight, everything goes back to normal.
Normal. The word sits wrong in my chest, heavy and foreign.
Back to Mary, who counts coins and avoids eye contact.
Back to pretending none of this happened.
The thought makes more tears spill, hot and sudden.
What the hell is wrong with me? Isn’t that what I want?
But then another thought sneaks in, quiet but sharp.
Does that mean I’ll never see them again?
Anton, Dima, Lev, Boris—all of them. Gone.
No more gun oil and Russian cursing. No more arguing over coffee strength or who gets the last protein bar. No more Anton watching me like he’s memorizing my pulse.
No more danger.
The idea should be comforting. Instead, it cracks something open. More tears fall. I swipe them away, angry at myself.
Why does that make me feel so fucking sad?
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. Take one deep breath. Then another. The air feels too thick, my chest too small. I look up at the ceiling, force my shoulders to drop.
“Breathe,” I mutter. “Just breathe.”
The mirror catches the movement of my mouth—some pathetic pep talk I don’t believe in. I look back at her: the shaky version of myself who’s been living on borrowed time and adrenaline.
Somewhere beyond the bathroom door, my phone alarm goes off—5.30 AM.
Dima will be waiting by 6 AM sharp.
I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face. My hands won’t stop trembling.
“Get it together, Mary,” I whisper to the mirror. “You’re fine. You’re just nervous.”
The word fine sounds like a prayer I don’t believe in.
Tonight’s the gala—the night before everything’s supposed to go back to normal.
My brain keeps chewing on that word like it’s gum that’s lost all its flavor.
Normal. Normal Mary. The one who balances spreadsheets, worries about late fees, and visits her grandma on Sundays.
I brace my hands on the counter until the nausea settles into a steady ache. Maybe it’s just coffee on an empty stomach. Or stress. Or not sleeping. I tell myself that twice, even though it doesn’t stick.
Sweat runs down my spine, sliding under the waistband of my shirt.
Dima looks like he rolled straight out of a military catalog—black shirt, cargo pants, boots that don’t make a sound. Sleeves up, forearms all veins and intent. He circles slowly, quiet, like a shark that’s already bored with the kill but doing it anyway.
I shift my stance, pretending I know what I’m doing. Spoiler: I don’t.
But then I watch myself work the way you notice a bruise turning into a scar—slow, inevitable.
My breath comes lower now, not the tight little gasps I used to panic with.
I plant my feet and feel the floor instead of floating above it.
My hands don’t flinch when I bring them up; they find the position Dima showed me yesterday without my brain yelling at them.
My elbows tuck. My chin drops three degrees.
I’m counting in halves—inhale, exhale, move—like a metronome.
When I pivot, it’s with my hips, not my shoulders.
The little tremor at the edge of my fingers is still there, but it’s quieter, a background hum instead of an alarm.
I notice the change the way you notice a song you used to hate and now can’t get out of your head. It’s not confidence. Not yet. It’s something uglier and more useful: competence. A muscle memory starting to feel like mine.
“Ambush,” he says flatly. “You have three seconds to decide—fight or run. Pick wrong, you die.”
Comforting.
I nod, breath still uneven from the last round. My lungs burn. My ponytail sticks to my neck. It’s only been a few days of this, but Dima has the same mercy as concrete.
He snaps his fingers. “Move.”
I react too slow. His hand clamps around my wrist, yanks hard, and suddenly my balance is gone. I hit the mat on my side, air punched out of me. Pain shoots through my ribs.
“Dead,” he says simply.
I groan, roll to my back, and glare up at him. “You could just say that instead of dislocating my arm to prove a point.”
“You’d forget it.” He offers a hand; I take it out of spite. His grip is steady, calloused. “Next time, move before the hand reaches you. Anticipate.”
“Anticipate what? You move like a ghost.”
“That’s the point.”
He steps back, crosses his arms, watching. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist. My arms shake, legs heavy. He’s relentless—every session like a survival bootcamp with no breaks.
“Again.”
“I just died!”
“You die again if you stop.”
God, he’s infuriating. I square my stance, hands up like he taught me—weight forward, knees bent. He lunges this time, fast. I twist, barely dodging his grip, pivot, and shove at his shoulder. He stumbles half a step.
“Better.”
That one word hits harder than it should.
We reset. He moves again, faster, unpredictable. I duck, elbow grazing his ribs. He grabs my forearm and pins it behind me before I even process what happened. My face nearly hits the mat.
“Dead,” he says again.
“Do you ever get tired of saying that?”
He almost smiles. “Not yet.”
I push up on my elbows, chest heaving. “You know, motivational speakers get paid for this kind of emotional abuse.”
He shrugs, calm. “They don’t keep people alive.”
Something about that makes me quiet. His eyes flick up—sharp, assessing—but softer than before.
“You’ll learn,” he says. “Tonight, you’ll need it.”
I nod, even though my muscles scream. I can’t tell if the shaking in my hands is adrenaline or fatigue.
The room goes quiet except for my breathing and the dull thud of my heartbeat in my ears. Dima circles once more, making me reset.
“Again,” he says.
I move before he finishes the word. Step forward, pivot, shove, elbow. My movements aren’t clean, but they’re mine this time. He catches my wrist anyway, twisting it just enough to throw me off balance.
Then something shifts. A pause.
Dima’s attention flicks to the door.
I don’t have to look. I feel it first—the change in the air, that low static hum my body’s started to recognize before my brain does.
Anton.
I keep my stance out of pure stubbornness. My pulse jumps, betraying me.
He steps inside without a word. No sound but the soft click of the door closing behind him. The room feels smaller instantly, the space between breaths heavier.
He’s in a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled once to the forearm, the top buttons undone. No tie. Just dark slacks and that quiet confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself. His hair’s slicked back, clean, the kind of effortless that takes effort.
He looks like sin dressed for a meeting.
Dima doesn’t need instruction. He nods once, wipes his hands on a towel, and steps aside.
“You’ve got her.”
Anton’s gaze doesn’t leave me as he walks forward. Every step measured, silent. The closer he gets, the more I can smell him—warm, expensive cologne with something darker underneath. Smoke. Leather. Heat.
I should look away, but I don’t.
He stops in front of me. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. He’s taller than I remember, or maybe I’m just more aware of it now. The air between us feels heavier, warmer.
“Again,” he says.
My throat’s dry. “You mean with you?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Who else?”
He steps closer, until the edge of his shirt brushes my forearm as he adjusts my grip. His fingers are cool against my skin, guiding, firm but not harsh.
“Your elbow,” he murmurs. “Tuck it in. You leave it open, they take you down in seconds.”
His breath ghosts over the side of my neck, hot against the chill of sweat. It’s not even a touch, but my body reacts like it is—muscles tightening, pulse jumping in places I don’t control.
Calm down. Calm down. Calm— Jesus, he’s literally teaching, not seducing. Get a grip, body.
I swallow hard, the sound loud in my own ears. Didn’t even realize I’d been holding it there, that knot in my throat. His eyes catch mine, steady, unreadable.
I do what he says.
He moves around me—slow, deliberate. Every adjustment is a touch: the shift of my wrist, the curve of my shoulder, his palm pressing briefly between my shoulder blades to straighten my posture. Each correction lights a spark where his skin meets mine.
He steps back, finally, eyes holding mine. “Better,” he says.
Before I can relax, he shifts—weight low, steps in fast.
“Show me what you’ve got.”
It’s pure reflex. His hand comes for my wrist, but I pivot before I think, drop my weight, twist out of his grip the way Dima drilled into me. I fake a stumble, bait him forward, then drive my knee up—not hard, just enough to make him flinch.
It works. His eyes flick down, his balance shifts, and for one ridiculous second, I’m the one in control.
Then he reverses it—hand snapping to my waist, pulling me flush against him, my back to his chest. The move is clean, efficient. He’s not even breathing hard.
I am.
“Not bad,” he murmurs, voice low against my ear. “You made me adjust.”
So I didn’t win. But I made him react. And from Anton, that feels like a trophy.
I twist in his hold, half-hearted, just enough to create space between us.
“So what? You’re proud of your little student now?”
He doesn’t answer, only studies me—eyes sharp, mouth unreadable. Then he lets go. I stumble a step back, breath still ragged.
“Proud,” he says finally. “No. Relieved, maybe.”
I snort. “Right. Because if I die tonight, who’ll make you dinner?”
Something shifts in his expression—barely, but I catch it. That quick flicker of guilt.
I cross my arms, sweat cooling on my skin. “You can drop the serious act. I’m still annoyed about the pasta thing.”
He exhales through his nose slowly. “Mary—”
“No, really. One minute I’m doing something nice, the next you’re treating me like some idiot who can’t be trusted with boiling water.”
The words tumble out sharper than I mean them to, and still, it isn’t enough. The more I talk, the more the heat rises—tight in my throat, spreading through my chest. I don’t even know if I’m mad at him or just everything else, but it burns anyway.
His jaw works once. “You were never the problem.”
The answer stutters me. It knocks something loose. For a second, he doesn’t look like the man who gives orders and expects the world to obey—he just looks… softer. Human.
“I—what?” I manage, voice smaller than I want it to be. “Then what is?”
He looks past me, somewhere distant, and I almost think he’s not going to answer. Then, quieter, “People who do what I do don’t get to keep nice things.”
That one hits deeper than I want it to. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out wrong.
“Good news, then. I’m not a thing. I’m a liability.”
He steps closer again, slow enough that I could move if I wanted. I don’t. His voice drops, rough around the edges.
“Just be careful tonight. Watch everyone. Trust no one.”
“I already don’t,” I say, trying for lightness. It barely lands.
He stares at me for a long moment, something unreadable tightening behind his eyes.
“I mean it, Mary. I don’t want your blood on me.”
The words are cold, final. But there’s something underneath—something that sounds too much like, “I couldn’t stand it if you were hurt.”
I swallow, searching his face for anything he won’t say.
“You won’t have to clean up after me,” I whisper.
He nods once, slow, then turns for the door. The distance between us fills back up with silence.
“Anton?”
He stops, doesn’t turn.
“If I make it through tonight,” I say, heart hammering, “I’m making pasta again. You can deal with it.”
For a second, he doesn’t move.Just stands there, one hand on the doorframe, the other tightening into a fist. I can’t see his full expression—only the tense line of his shoulders, the stillness that always comes before he walks into a fight.
Then he turns slowly. His eyes meet mine, and the look in them knocks the breath out of me. It isn’t pity. It isn’t softness. It’s something worse. Something that says he cares—and he wishes he didn’t.
“Then you better make it,” he says.His tone is calm, steady, but I hear what’s underneath. Don’t you dare die.
The door closes behind him, the sound too final for how much I suddenly want him to stay.
I stare at the empty space where he stood, my pulse still racing, the quiet pressing in.
And for the first time, I don’t know which would hurt more—if tonight kills me…Or if it doesn’t.