Chapter 23
Izzy
“Again.”
Sergei’s voice cuts through the basement gym, all steel and patience. I’m on the mat, sweating through his old t-shirt, every muscle screaming. My lungs burn. My arms shake. But I get up anyway.
“You’re pulling your punches.” He circles me like a predator assessing prey. His black tank shows off those tattooed forearms, the play of muscle as he moves. Distracting doesn’t begin to cover it. “If someone comes at you, don’t hesitate. You hit to kill or you die.”
“Easy for you to say.” I wipe sweat from my forehead. “You’ve been doing this your whole life.”
“And you’ve been doing it for three days. Stop whining and hit me.”
I throw a punch. He deflects it easily, pivoting to get behind me. His arm snakes around my throat—not choking, just demonstrating control—and his body presses against my back. Heat floods through me despite the exhaustion.
“Dead,” he murmurs against my ear. “What do you do?”
My brain short-circuits. What I want to do involves turning around and kissing him until we both forget why we’re down here. But that’s not what he’s teaching.
I stomp his instep. Slam my elbow back into his ribs. When his grip loosens, I twist free and drive my knee up toward his groin. He blocks it, but I’m already pivoting, using his momentum against him. We both go down hard, and I end up straddling his chest with my forearm across his throat.
“Dead,” I pant. “How’d I do?”
His eyes darken, gaze dropping to where my thighs bracket his torso. “Better. But you telegraphed the knee strike.” His hands find my hips, fingers digging in through sweat-damp fabric. “And now you’re in a compromising position.”
“Am I?” I press my forearm harder against his throat, watching his pulse jump. “From where I’m sitting, you’re the one who’s compromised.”
“You think?” In one fluid motion, he flips us. Suddenly I’m on my back with two hundred pounds of dangerous man pinning me to the mat, his hips settled between my thighs. “This is why you don’t celebrate early, kotyonok.”
The position is obscene. His body against mine, both of us breathing hard, sweat slicking our skin. I should push him off.
Instead, I arch up into him. “Maybe I wanted to be here.”
His jaw tightens. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Good thing I like getting burned.”
For three heartbeats, we stay frozen—his eyes boring into mine, his weight delicious and maddening, the space between us charged with everything we’re not acknowledging. Then he rolls off me in one smooth motion and stands, offering his hand.
“Break. Then we move to firearms.”
The gun feels wrong in my hands. Too heavy, too real, too much like admitting I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross. Sergei stands behind me, adjusting my stance.
“Feet shoulder-width apart. Dominant foot back. Bend your knees.” His hands guide my hips into position. “Weight forward. You’re not a statue—stay fluid.”
“This is insane.” I stare at the target twenty feet away. “A month ago, my biggest concern was which charity gala to attend. Now I’m learning to shoot people.”
“You’re learning to protect yourself.” He moves closer, his chest against my back, arms bracketing mine as he adjusts my grip. “Big difference. Now sight your target. Breathe. On the exhale, squeeze.”
I do. The recoil kicks through my arms, but the bullet hits center mass. Not perfect, but close.
“Again.”
Five shots later, my grouping’s tight enough that Sergei makes an approving sound.
“Natural talent.” He takes the gun, unloading it with practiced ease. “Or you’re motivated by spite.”
“Can’t it be both?”
His mouth quirks. “You keep surprising me.”
“Good. I’d hate to be predictable.”
We move to knife work next. He hands me a training blade—dull edge, weighted like the real thing—and demonstrates basic strikes. Slash, stab, reverse grip. His movements are fluid, economical, beautiful in a lethal way.
When it’s my turn, I’m clumsy. The blade feels awkward. My strikes are telegraphed and slow. Frustration builds with each failed attempt.
“You’re thinking too much.” Sergei moves behind me again, his hands covering mine on the knife. “Feel it. Your body knows what to do—your brain’s getting in the way.”
“My brain’s the only thing keeping me alive.”
“Your instincts will keep you alive. Your brain will get you killed while you’re busy analyzing.” He guides my arm through a slash, his body pressed against mine, lips near my ear. “Stop thinking, Isabelle. Just move.”
I let go. Stop analyzing angles and force vectors. My body takes over—muscle memory building from three days of brutal training—and the knife flows through the pattern. Slash, pivot, stab. When I finish, breathing hard, Sergei’s hands are still on mine.
“Better. Much better.”
I turn in his arms. Big mistake. We’re too close, both flushed from exertion, and his eyes have that look that makes my knees weak. The knife clatters to the mat between us.
“Sergei—”
“You’re dangerous now.” His thumb traces my jaw. “Not just because I’m protecting you. Because you can protect yourself.”
“That was always the plan.”
“I know. Doesn’t make it less attractive.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Watching you fight. Watching you learn. Watching you become someone who doesn’t need saving.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Relieved.” His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back. “The Wolf protects. But the man? The man wants an equal. Someone who can stand beside him instead of behind him.”
“Sergei—” His name comes out breathless.
The basement door opens. “Papa? Izzy? I finished my homework!”
We spring apart like teenagers caught making out. I grab a water bottle, drinking to hide my flushed face. Sergei’s already moving toward the stairs, his expression neutral, like we weren’t seconds from something that would’ve scandalized his daughter.
“Good job, ptichka,” he calls up. “Set up the chess board. I’ll be right there.”
Mila’s footsteps retreat. Sergei turns back to me, and the heat in his eyes could melt steel.
“Later,” he says. Promise and threat wrapped in one word.
“Later,” I agree.
That night, after Mila’s asleep and Sergei’s checked the locks twice, we end up on opposite ends of the couch. Exhaustion should make me crash, but I’m wired—adrenaline from training mixing with awareness of the man beside me.
“You did well today.” He’s cleaning his guns, the ritual soothing for someone who’s lived by violence. “Three days and you’re already competent. Give it a month and you’ll be lethal.”
“High praise from The Wolf.”
“I don’t give praise I don’t mean.” He slides the magazine into place with a decisive click. “You don’t need saving anymore.”
“Good,” I tell him, pulling Dad’s lighter from my pocket and flipping it open. The flame catches, small and persistent. “I’m not yours to save.”
“No. You’re not.”
But the way he says it makes my breath catch.
The lighter clicks closed.
And in the darkness, I feel him move closer.