Chapter 3 The Reluctant Protector
THE RELUCTANT PROTECTOR
VIKTOR
The sound of my fists against the training mat was the only rhythm I trusted.
Impact. Breath. Reset.
Everything else was noise. Chaos pretending to be order. Lies dressed up as loyalty. Men calling themselves soldiers when they'd never tasted smoke or held a dying comrade while his blood turned the snow red beneath them both.
But this. This I understood.
The training hall at Ravenswood stretched out in all directions, polished floors reflecting fluorescent lights that made everything look sterile.
Clinical. Like a morgue where the bodies could still move.
High windows lined the far wall, rain streaking down the glass in patterns that reminded me of somewhere else.
Some other storm. Some other life I'd left bleeding in the dirt where it belonged.
I didn't think about it.
Thinking was dangerous.
I moved through the combinations Adrian had drilled into me years ago, back when I was still raw from the military, still flinching at loud noises, still waking up with my hands around invisible throats.
He'd taught me control. Discipline. How to turn rage into something useful instead of letting it burn me alive from the inside out.
Impact. Breath. Reset.
My knuckles were already split, blood seeping through the tape I'd wrapped too thin this morning. I didn't care. Pain was clarity. Pain was the only honest thing left in the world, and I'd take honesty over comfort any day of the week.
“You're slowing down, old man.”
Dom's voice cut through the rhythm, and I couldn't help the slight twitch at the corner of my mouth. Didn't break stride, though. Didn't acknowledge him. Just kept moving, kept breathing, kept my focus on the heavy bag swaying in front of me like a pendulum counting down to something inevitable.
“I heard you the first time,” I said, accent thick around the consonants. “Also heard you trip over your own feet coming through the door.”
“That was tactical repositioning.”
“That was you being clumsy British bastard.”
He circled me like a wolf testing prey, but there was a grin splitting his face wide open.
The kind he always wore when he thought he was being clever.
We'd worked together for five years. Bled together.
Killed together. Gotten drunk exactly twice and never spoke of it again.
He was the closest thing I had to a brother, which meant I knew exactly how to hurt him if he pushed too hard.
It also meant I knew how to make him laugh when everything else went to shit.
“I'm graceful as a fucking gazelle,” Dom said, still circling. “You're just jealous.”
“Gazelles do not smell like cheap cologne and poor decisions.”
“This cologne is expensive, thank you very much. Some of us care about personal grooming.”
I stopped mid-strike, letting my fist hover inches from the bag. Turned to face him with one eyebrow raised. “Is that why you use more hair product than Noah?”
“Noah doesn't use hair product, he's naturally gorgeous. Unlike some of us who look like we crawled out of a Serbian war zone.”
“I did crawl out of Serbian war zone.”
“My point exactly.” Dom's grin sharpened. “Now are we going to talk about our feelings, or are you going to let me hit you?”
“You could try.”
“Oh, I will.” He was closer now, just outside my peripheral vision. Testing boundaries. Waiting for me to react. “Question is whether you're still fast enough to stop me.”
I turned fully to face him, and that's when he moved.
Fast. Trained. He came in low, aiming for my ribs, and I shifted my weight just in time. Caught his wrist mid-swing. Our eyes met for a split second, his blue ones bright with challenge, and then I used his momentum against him. One smooth pivot. One sharp pull.
He twisted mid-fall, refusing to go down easy. Typical. His free hand shot out and grabbed my shoulder, taking me with him. We hit the mat together, hard enough to knock the air from both our lungs. I landed on top, forearm pressed across his chest, my knee between his legs for leverage.
Dom was already laughing even as he gasped for air. Blood trickled from his split lip, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, still grinning like an idiot who'd just proven his point.
“Christ, Viktor. You could at least pretend to break a sweat.”
“Why?” I could feel his heartbeat against my forearm. Rapid. Alive. His chest rose and fell beneath me, and I realized how close we were. How easy it would be to apply just a little more pressure. How vulnerable he'd made himself by pulling me down.
Trust. That's what this was.
“Because normal people do. When they fight. When they feel things.” He pushed up on his elbows, studying me with those sharp blue eyes that saw too much, dug too deep, refused to let me hide behind the walls I'd built so carefully. “You know. Human shit.”
I should have moved. Should have gotten up. Instead, I pressed down harder, testing his defense. “You want me to feel things? I feel you about to tap out.”
“Bold words from a man whose knee is in a very delicate position.” But he didn't tap. Didn't yield. Just held my gaze with that infuriating smirk. “I could end your bloodline from here.”
“You would have to catch me off guard first.”
“Pretty sure I'm the one on bottom, mate.”
“And yet you are still talking instead of fighting your way out.” I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. “This is your problem. Too much mouth. Not enough action.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Challenge accepted.
He moved fast. Bucked his hips up while grabbing my wrist, using the momentum to roll us.
Suddenly I was the one on my back with Dom straddling my chest, his thighs locked tight around my ribs.
His hands pinned my wrists above my head, and he was breathing hard now, grinning down at me like he'd just won something.
“Still think I'm all talk?” he panted.
I could feel his weight pressing me into the mat.
The heat of him. The way his legs tightened when I tested his hold.
Five years of trust between us, and this was how we spoke it.
Through violence that wasn't quite violence.
Through competition that was really just checking to make sure the other was still sharp. Still alive. Still here.
“You are straddling me like cheap date,” I said, keeping my voice flat even though my heart was pounding. “This is your victory?”
“This is me proving a point.”
“Point being?”
“That you're not as fast as you think you are.” His grin widened. “And that you're definitely slowing down in your old age.”
I tested his grip. Strong. Solid. He knew what he was doing. But he'd made one critical mistake. He'd gotten cocky.
I drove my knee up hard into his lower back while simultaneously twisting my wrists inward.
The combination broke his hold just enough.
I bucked him forward, rolled, and suddenly we were grappling in earnest. No more playing.
Just instinct and training and the kind of fight that happened when two predators tested each other's limits.
We rolled across the mat, a tangle of limbs and leverage points.
His elbow caught my ribs. My knee found his thigh.
We were both breathing hard now, sweat making our grips slip, and there was something almost obscene about it.
The way our bodies moved together. The way we anticipated each other's moves.
The heat building between us that had nothing to do with the workout and everything to do with trust pushed to its breaking point.
I got him in a headlock, but he twisted out of it. He went for an arm bar, but I countered before he could lock it in. We ended up face to face, both on our knees, my hand fisted in his shirt and his fingers wrapped around my wrist tight enough to bruise.
We were both panting. Both grinning now, because this was the most honest conversation we'd had in weeks.
“You give up yet?” Dom asked, breathless.
“Do I look like man who gives up?”
“You look like a man who's about to get his arse kicked by someone younger and prettier.”
“You are neither of these things.”
“I'm definitely prettier.”
“You have blood on your face.”
“Makes me look dangerous.” He was still holding my wrist, still close enough that I could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Could smell his cologne mixed with sweat and that indefinable thing that was just Dom. Solid. Real. Alive in a way that reminded me I was too.
I shoved him back, not hard. Just enough to break the moment before it became something else. Something neither of us could take back.
He went easily, sprawling on his back with that stupid grin still plastered across his face. “Admit it. I almost had you.”
“You had nothing.”
“I had you pinned for at least ten seconds.”
“Ten seconds is not victory.” I stood, offered him my hand. “Ten seconds is me letting you think you won.”
He took it, let me haul him to his feet. “You're a terrible liar, you know that?”
“I am excellent liar. You would not know truth from me if it bit you.”
“Yeah, well.” He wiped more blood from his mouth, still catching his breath. “You're still slowing down.”
I turned back to the heavy bag, but there was something lighter in my chest now. Something that felt almost like relief. Almost like being human again, even if just for a moment.
“Control is not weakness,” I said, settling back into my stance. “You should remember this.”
“My problem is I talk too much. Your problem is you don't talk at all.” He grabbed a towel from the bench, watching me with those eyes that saw everything I tried to hide. “You should let someone hit you back more often. Might make you feel human again.”