Twelve #2
“I understand, Sergeant,” he says, gritting his teeth.
I hold him there one more second, feeling every line of tension in his body, and then I release him.
I stand in one fluid motion and offer him a hand up.
He stares at it, then takes it anyway. He uses more strength than necessary to pull himself up, trying to show he doesn’t need the help.
It drags me a step closer, and for a few seconds, we’re standing too close, breathing the same air.
Then he drops my hand like it burns and steps back.
“That,” I say, pitching my voice light again for the room, “is what happens when you confuse training with a debate club.” A couple of the Russians laugh outright, and one of the Brits winces in sympathy. The muscle in Caiden’s jaw pops, but he keeps his mouth shut now.
Lesson taken.
Niko claps his hands hard. “Alright, show’s over,” he calls.
“We’re switching to drills. Pair up. Five-minute rounds, then rotate.
” Bodies move, the chatter resumes, and the tension breaks like glass.
It was just a spar and a Sergeant reminding a junior soldier not to get lippy. They’ll forget it by dinner.
But I won’t.
For the rest of the session, every time I glance over, Caiden’s with someone else, working combinations with the kind of relentless focus that looks like he’s trying not to think at all. He doesn’t look at me once.
Impressive restraint.
When Niko finally calls it, dismissing them with a reminder about timings and a joke about nobody dying on his watch, the crowd spills out in clumps.
I pretend to be busy coiling a rope while I watch Caiden move with his team, listening to something one of his corporals is saying, his expression set in that careful neutral he uses when he’s not sure what face to wear.
I expect him to go to the showers with them and laugh it off.
Let them clap him on the shoulder and joke about how he nearly had me before I “went crazy,” because of course that’s what they’ll say.
Instead, at the first junction he mutters something to his CO, gets a nod, and breaks off alone, heading down the side corridor past the equipment room. I wait ten seconds, enough not to be obvious.
Then I follow.
The corridor outside the equipment room is dimmer, lit by a single buzzing strip light. The door is ajar, and I hear the faint clatter of metal inside. I push the door fully open and step in.
The room is long and narrow, lined with racks of pads, gloves, and training gear.
Caiden is halfway down, his back half-turned, shoving a stack of focus mitts onto a shelf with more force than necessary.
He hears me come in, and his shoulders go tense, but he doesn’t turn yet.
“Is this where you come to sulk?” I ask mildly, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe.
“Very atmospheric. Ten out of ten for brooding potential.”
He takes a breath, sets the last mitt down carefully, then he turns.
Up close, without an audience, he looks more dangerous and more breakable all at once.
His hair is damp with sweat, his fringe falls into his eyes, and his cheeks are still flushed from exertion.
“Sergeant,” he says; the word is stiff. “Was there something you needed?”
So polite. So proper. So fucking angry.
I step further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft thunk. “I wanted to check your joints survived my brutality. We can’t have your CO accusing me of maiming his favourite toy.”
“I’m not anyone’s toy,” he says quickly.
“Oh?” I ask, smiling slowly. “Is that what that was out there? You wrestling control back with your big, serious voice?” I take another step closer, letting the space shrink. “Because it looked very much like a boy who forgot where he was and needed reminding.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “I was making a point about training realism. You turned it into a spectacle.”
“I turned it into a lesson,” I correct. “Don’t confuse those just because you didn’t like being on the bottom of it.”
Colour explodes high on his cheekbones. “You humiliated me in front of my men for speaking. That’s not a lesson. It’s ego.”
“It’s both. You forget something, Lance Corporal. When you open your mouth in front of my unit, you’re not just a British tourist with opinions. You’re mine, for the duration.”
“Yours,” he repeats. “That’s generous.”
“I’m very generous. Ask anyone who’s survived me.”
He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us without seeming to realise he’s doing it. We’re a few feet apart now. “You can’t treat people like that, like they’re pieces on a board.”
“Oh, detka, that’s exactly what they are. Pieces. Tools. Variables.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not how my CO runs things,” he says.
“Your CO hasn’t watched as many pieces get taken,” I snap, sharper than intended. I take a breath, then let it go.
“You enjoy it,” he says quietly. “Don’t you? Pushing people. Seeing how far you can bend them before they break.”
“I enjoy results,” I say. “If you want gentle, go to a civilian gym.”
“I didn’t ask for gentle, I asked for real.”
I step closer again until we’re only a hand’s breadth apart. “And what’s more real than being flat on your back with no air in your lungs and someone stronger deciding when you get to breathe?”
His breathing stutters. This close, I can see the pulse pounding in his throat. “And did you enjoy that, Arseny?” he asks, his voice rough. “Having me under you in front of everyone?”
“I’d be lying,” I say softly, “if I said it wasn’t... educational.”
His hand twitches at his side, like he might push me, or grab me, potentially both. “You’re out of line,” he fires back weakly.
“Probably,” I agree. “You could file a complaint. Tell your CO the scary Russian Sergeant sat on you too hard.”
“You’re an arsehole,” he says, his nostrils flaring.
“Da,” I say. “And you like it.”
“I don’t,” he whispers.
“Liar,” I reach up, my fingers sliding along his cheekbone, causing him to suck in a breath.
“See?” I say quietly. “You didn’t back down.
You didn’t tap. You didn’t cry.” My thumb ghosts his bottom lip.
“You took everything I gave you, and you’re still standing.
That’s not humiliation, Caiden. That’s proof. ”
“Of what?” he whispers, before he can stop himself.
“That you can take more,” I say. For a dizzy second, I forget this is dangerous. I drop my hand, stepping back as if nothing had happened and the air rushes between us. “We’re done for today,” I say briskly. “Consider yourself... recalibrated.”
He stares at me, his chest rising and falling a little too fast, his hands flexing at his sides. “Next time,” he manages, “you could just tell me instead of putting on a show.”
“Where would be the fun in that?” I ask lightly, moving toward the door.
I pause with my hand on the handle and look back over my shoulder.
“And Lance Corporal?” I add. “If you’re going to challenge me in public again, make sure you’re ready for how interested everyone will be in watching you lose. ”
“Who says I lost?” he says, his voice low.
I can’t help grinning. “Look at you, still arguing. You’re cute when you’re wrong, detka.
” He takes a step toward me like he’s about to close the gap between us again, but I don’t let him.
“Rest,” I say, yanking the door open. “Ice your ribs, and drink water. I’ll need you upright for next week’s drills. ”
“Can’t wait,” he mutters. But there’s a look in his eyes that isn’t just anger.
I step back into the corridor, letting the door swing shut behind me. “Idiot,” I tell myself. “Dangerous, stupid, reckless idiot.” This is not a game we can afford to play.
I should leave it, let it go. There are a dozen other things that need my attention.
Instead, I find myself thinking about the way his eyes looked when I called him a liar.