Twelve
Arseny
The thing about respect is that people think it’s about salutes, titles, and who’s got more metal on their chest. Respect is simpler than that. Which is why when the British Lance Corporal decides to grow a spine in front of an entire joint training session, I decide he needs a reminder.
We’re in the gym — if you can call it that.
Concrete floor with scuffed mats that have seen more blood than bleach, and windows too high up to see anything but sky.
Niko’s running a joint session in hand-to-hand integration.
It’s nice neutral ground with half my unit and half theirs, mixed together, like dogs sniffing each other’s backsides.
I’m supposed to be assisting with demonstrations and corrections. They don’t let me do PowerPoints, but they let me teach people how not to die. I’m good at it. “Again,” I bark, louder than strictly necessary. “If you throw a punch like that at a Spetsnaz unit, they’ll send it back with interest.”
The poor British private in front of me flushes, adjusts his stance, and throws again. It’s not great, but better. I shove his elbow down and twist his hip. “There,” I say. “Now you’re a threat instead of a suggestion.” Someone snorts, but he’s too far back for me to see. My hackles go up anyway.
We’re in a mid-joint grappling demo with Niko explaining in slow, careful English about the centre of gravity and leverage. I’m paired with one of our sergeants to show a basic takedown, nothing fancy.
“Questions?” Niko calls. One of the Brits lifts a hand — not Caiden, the other one with the stupid laugh.
“Yeah, sir, just… what about if the opponent’s heavier?” he asks. “Some of us aren’t exactly built like tanks.”
Niko smirks. “That’s why you use technique, not just weight. My brother will show you. Arseny?” He nods at me.
I let Sergei take me down slowly, then I reverse and pin him with half the effort, talking through the mechanics. They watch carefully. Some understand, and others pretend to. It’s fine, makes no difference to me.
“Right, but it’s a bit different when the guy’s trying to take your head off, isn’t it?” A voice says from the British cluster. I don’t have to look to know who it is. Lance Corporal ‘I don’t have a death wish, I just behave like it’ Caiden Varrik.
Niko hears it too and his brows twitch. He chooses diplomacy. “That’s true,” he says. “But you train slow so you can move fast. You build muscle memory before you add panic. Otherwise, you teach your body to flail, not fight.”
Caiden doesn’t shut up. “Respectfully, sir,” he says, and I can hear the capital letters on ‘respectfully.’ “We’ve done live exercises before. It’s not always this... controlled.”
Controlled. My lips curl.
Niko opens his mouth, probably to say something sensible, soothing, and full of cross-cultural empathy.
But I get there first. “You have something to add, Lance Corporal?” I say, letting my voice carry.
Heads turn, and the room does that subtle shift where everyone pretends they’re not suddenly much more interested.
Caiden’s jaw flexes. He didn’t mean to speak that loudly, and he definitely didn’t mean for me to pick it up like a dropped grenade.
But it’s too late now. We both know it. He could back down.
Easy. “No, Sergeant.” “Just thinking aloud, Sergeant.” “Won’t happen again, Sergeant. ” Men do it all the time.
Swallow it.
Walk it back.
“I just think,” he says, carefully, looking back at Niko, “if we’re teaching, we should account for real-world pressure. Sir.”
‘Sir’ for Niko. Not for me. Interesting. “Oh, I agree,” I say. “Real pressure is important.” I step off the mat rolling my shoulders, feeling my joints loosen with familiar anticipation. “Come. Show me,” I say, gesturing with my chin to the mat. “We’ll take it at your speed.”
Niko shoots me a look. The one that means ‘don’t,’ but I ignore him.
A murmur runs through the watching crowd, and someone mutters something in Russian that roughly translates to “this’ll be good.
” One of the Brits elbows the other guy next to him, smirking.
Of course they want to see the foreign freak and their quiet golden boy go at it.
Humans are simple.
For a second, Caiden stands there, and you can almost see the calculations spinning behind his eyes — pride, protocol, and humiliation-risk assessment. I’ve seen that look on men twice his size with twice his rank. It almost always ends the same way.
“Alright,” he says, stepping forward, his voice is steady. “If you insist, Sergeant.”
Oh, excellent.
He steps onto the mat opposite me. We circle, and Niko exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s suddenly aged five years. I flash him my most innocent expression, and he flips me off without moving his hand. Love you too, solnyshko.
“Rules?” Caiden asks, eyes still on mine.
“Don’t die,” I say, tilting my head. “Try to learn something. Beyond that... we’ll see.” A ripple of uneasy laughter comes from the onlookers, and we square up. I’m not generous enough to give him the first move, but I’m not cruel enough to ambush him either. I lift my hands, and I wait.
He comes in cautiously, his hands up, testing distance. He goes for my shoulder, and I parry it easily, redirecting his wrist with an open palm. He recovers fast without fumbling. He’s also watching my eyes, not my chest.
Rookie mistake.
“You’re tense,” I say lightly as we circle. “Do I scare you, detka?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant,” he says through his teeth. He tries for a leg sweep. It’s not bad, but I hop over it, letting my heel clip his calf on the way down, which is enough to make him stumble. The crowd chuckles, and the anger flares in his face.
“Again,” I say. He comes in faster this time with combinations and a jab at my ribs. Then, an attempt to hook my ankle, suggesting he’s thinking three moves ahead.
He’s not predictable. I like that. Irritatingly.
We trade positions, and for a few seconds, it honestly could go either way. He gets fingers on my sleeve, pulls, and tries to leverage my momentum. I roll with it, dropping down to a knee by choice, letting him think he’s got something, then I twist.
In a heartbeat, I’m behind him with my forearm braced across his chest, and his balance is compromised. I don’t lock it fully yet. But I let him feel how easily I could. “Mind your centre,” I murmur in his ear. “You’re giving it away for free.”
“Maybe I just trust you not to drop me on my arse in front of my CO,” he grinds out, wriggling to get loose.
“Oh, detka,” I say softly for his ears alone, “that’s your second mistake today.”
I release him and shove him lightly between the shoulder blades so he staggers forward, regaining his feet.
“You alright, Cai?” I hear one of his team mutter under his breath.
“Fine,” Caiden snaps, still not taking his eyes off me.
We go again, faster, harder. He’s stopped being careful about how he looks and started caring about not losing, which is a much more interesting version of him.
Our bodies collide, slide, break apart, and my focus narrows to the heat of his skin through the thin uniform fabric, the rasp of his breath, and the tiny tells in his shoulders when he’s about to commit.
He gets me in a hold that would be decent against someone slower.
His arm around my waist, weight driving me sideways, and thigh blocking my knee.
I let him have it for a few seconds — long enough for the room murmurs — then I drop my centre of gravity and throw my weight backwards, hip-checking him off balance.
We hit the mat together, and he grunts as my shoulder digs into his chest. He recovers quickly and tries to roll us, but I’m ready. I trap his wrist, slide my leg across his hips, and in an ugly, efficient motion, I have him pinned under me.
My thighs bracket his, my weight is on his sternum, and it’s just enough to make his breath hitch.
His arm is twisted with his elbow joint on the edge of a lock.
One twitch from me and he’ll either tap or scream.
“See?” I say loudly enough for everyone.
“Technique. Leverage. Even if they’re heavier, you can take control.
Especially if they insist on making clever comments in class. ”
Niko pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s got a migraine. Caiden glares up at me, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. His chest rising fast under my palm. “Arseny,” he says, low enough that the crowd won’t hear. “You’ve made your point. Let me up.”
He could tap, but he doesn’t. Stubborn bastard.
I tilt my head and let my fingers flex slightly against his trapped wrist. “My point?” I echo, letting a little more weight sink onto his chest. He makes a tiny involuntary sound as the air compresses from his lungs.
It’s not quite a whimper, but it does unhelpful things to my blood.
“I have several. Which one are you referring to?”
Up close, like this, I can see the darker ring around the iris of his eyes, and the flecks of gold. “I spoke out of turn,” he grinds out. “You’ve… corrected that. Satisfied?”
“Not even remotely,” I whisper. There’s a shift under me that has nothing to do with technique and everything to do with the fact that I am astride a very solid, very alive man, pinning him to the floor in front of half the base.
I need to end this, but instead, I lean down further, enough that my breath ghosts against his throat and my lips are a hand’s width from his ear.
From the outside, it probably looks like I’m giving technical notes.
“Vot chto byvayet, kogda ty brosayesh’ mne vyzov na glazakh u vsekh.
” I whisper. This is what happens when you challenge me in front of everyone.
He doesn’t understand the words, but the tone translates.
His breath catches. “Say you understand,” I add in English.
“And I’ll let you up with your pride mostly intact. ”
Our eyes lock and for a second, I think he’s going to tell me to go to hell. Right here, flat on his back, in front of everyone.