34. Thirty-Four
I’m infinitely grateful Tucker didn’t ask too many questions when I showed up in his room last night. He didn’t push me to tell him about why I showed up quiet and still sifting through my thoughts, in my underwear and a T-shirt. He just pulled me into his bed and held me close until we fell asleep.
I don’t know why I couldn’t tell him anything, but every time I considered sharing, it felt wrong, like I was going to be spilling a secret that wasn’t mine to share. I would be betraying Dane’s trust, exposing the sliver of vulnerability he keeps buried so deeply beneath the surface.
I drag my hand over my face, trying to ward off the sleep that still pushes in at the edges of my awareness, and groan when I remember I need to get ready for training. This is the first time the thought didn’t kick up a flurry of excitement, and I know it’s because of Dane. His intrusion into our fun moment, his accusations, his bullheadedness, it all clings to me despite last night’s visit.
Ray told me once that a good workout could solve nearly any problem, so who knows? Maybe getting sweaty with Ray could be the solution.
Oh, there’s the excitement.
My cheeks heat and my core tightens at the accidental innuendo, my body now eager to find my tattoo covered boy.
I give Tucker a kiss on the forehead and step away, leaving him sound asleep while I head back to my room.
I hesitate for a second when I get to my door, sincerely debating the merits of exercising in my underwear and a too-large shirt.
Enough, Madeline. This is your room.
I shake off the ridiculous nerves and open the door, and the hinges creak as loud as ever. My eyes immediately fall to the bed, checking for Dane, but it’s empty and neatly made. It looks as if last night was entirely a dream, like somehow, I had made the entire thing up. But I know it happened, and I’ll never forget him leaning in to kiss me.
I dress for my training session, taking my sweet time doing so, procrastinating as much as I reasonably can. I’m excited to see Ray, but I’m dreading the training itself. Partially from the mental exhaustion of the last night, but also because my arms feel like they’re just one wrong move from falling clean off my body. I can’t suppress a groan as I wrestle my sports bra on, my arms straining while I stretch the elastic over myself.
All this for the sole, ridiculous goal of looking strong in front of Dane. And I probably didn’t even succeed.
What got into him yesterday?
I can’t stop thinking about it, about how different he was between our two interactions. Even though it’s at the forefront of my mind, there’s no way I’m going to broach the subject in the harsh, artificial light of day. I don’t want to yank our connection out of the privacy of the past.
Does he even remember coming into my room? Does he have any idea what he said?
He has to know something happened last night, he woke up alone in my room.
The questions are still swirling around when I get closer to the training room, and I hear the rattle of chains and the slight squeak of vinyl against skin. Ray’s setting up the punching bag.
I don’t even try to conceal my whine when I step into the room, dropping my head back and throwing in a little stomp for good measure. I know Ray will understand I’m just doing it to get it out of my system, that as soon as it comes down to it, I’ll give a full concerted effort. But, man, does it feel good to let it out.
When I finally right my head, I don’t find Ray adjusting the chains holding the bag up. Instead, it’s my surprise visitor from last night, studying me before turning away to secure the last clip. He doesn’t look at me as he steps away from the bag and heads to the table next to me. My breath catches a little with apprehension, because I have no idea why he’s here.
“Good morning,” Dane mutters as he bends down to grab a hand wrap from the table. I watch as he starts to wind it between his fingers, pulling and twisting the fabric with a focus that seems to underscore every other thing he does in life. He’s using the same technique Ray taught me, but with distinctly more success than I’ve been able to manage.
“Morning,” I say back, reaching for my own rolled wrap. “Sleep well last night?”
He flicks his eyes up to mine. “Never.”
The single word strikes something in me, and my heart sinks. Maybe he remembers what happened last night, remembers our conversation.
“Where’s Rayner? He said he was going to meet me.” The question slips out easily, as if I’m not trying to hide the fact I’d rather walk on hot coals than train under his watchful eye. Especially after everything that happened yesterday.
I unravel my own bundle of wraps and start trying to wind one around my wrist and through my fingers. It’s a clumsy attempt, the fabric twisting everywhere it shouldn’t and bunching up everywhere else.
“I told him I was taking over.” He drills me with a hard stare, daring me to challenge him on this. That unspoken dare riles up a spark of defiance, but the look he’s giving me lights a different kind of fire low in my belly.
“Why?”
“For starters, I’ve been told I haven’t checked in on you enough.” He tightens the last bit of his wrap and secures it, maintaining his probing eye contact the whole time. “Or is that no longer an issue?”
“You couldn’t just ask how training was going?” I give up on trying to wrap my right hand and decide to try my left, choking down the embarrassment of struggling in front of him. The strip of fabric shakes back and forth as I try to loosen the twists I’ve wound into it.
Dane takes a step forward, and his fingers pinch the dangling strap, pulling it away from me. He’s invaded the bubble of space around me, that barrier we hadn’t crossed until last night with that single step. It’s making me feel crowded, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. My weight shifts to my toes as he tugs my arm towards him, his fingers firm yet gentle around my wrist.
“I prefer a more hands on approach for my check ins.” I might be imagining it, but I swear I can almost see a smirk on his lips.
He wraps my hands quickly and efficiently, securing them tight enough they don’t shift while making sure they aren’t cutting off my circulation. My heart stutters when he pulls at one of the bands to check the fit, the slight tug controlling my body in more ways than one.
“Alright then, sir. Where are we going to start?”
Something flashes in his eyes, something fiery and fierce, and my stomach sinks. I’m not sure what I’m getting into with this training session, but I think it might be exactly what I need to shake any lingering grogginess and clear my mind.
Rep after rep he drills me, demanding more than I’ve ever had to give during my training sessions with Ray. Within thirty minutes my legs feel like jelly below me, and my breaths are coming in sharp, nearly painful pants.
Maybe he was right. Maybe we weren’t giving it our all.
“Drink some water, you look like you’re about to pass out,” he instructs after a particularly brutal round.
“Gee, thanks,” I groan, as I hobble towards the table. I know I’m panting and sweating like a pig, but he doesn’t need to point it out.
“You’re welcome.”
I roll my eyes at his disgustingly strong back, the muscles visible through the tight fabric of his athletic shirt. If he’s going to try to kill me today, he should at least have the decency to react appropriately when I’m trying to be snarky.
He unrolls an unfamiliar canvas pack on the table, smoothing the ends, and looking closely at whatever was wrapped up inside of it. I lean back against the wall, begging the endorphins to kick in while I watch him. I’m trying to figure out what new method of torture he’s going to use while chugging huge gulps of water, but my body wins out. My eyes shutter closed as the cool water runs down my throat and fills my belly. I revel in the feeling of the chill dropping into my stomach. The few moments of rest I get to drink drag me back from the brink of passing out.
“You done?”
“Do I have to be?” I pant out the words.
“Come here. We’re starting something new.”
I heave myself away from the wall, pausing to make sure my legs aren’t going to give out on me, before joining him at the table. When I get there, my throat closes up, a surge of terror flowing through me when I look down at the spread in front of me. My vision starts to swim, and my heart lurches.
Stop.
I’m not there. I’m not in Omni.
I’m not with John.
I swallow the fear, the panic, forcing it back into submission. I’m here, I’m in the bunker with my men. This isn’t a Tank.
“Knives?” My voice is steady, and a bubble of pride rises in my chest when none of my anxiety leaks into the question.
“Good job, that’s exactly what they are.”
There’s a smile on Dane’s face, and I nearly fall over at the sight of it. This time I’m definitely not imagining it, and it’s incredible. It’s not Ray’s big goofy grin or Tuck’s small shy smile. It’s a trickle of sunshine through a dark, angry storm cloud.
I should be giving him the dirtiest look I can manage right now, but all I can do is stare, my mouth left hanging open. Did he just make a joke? There’s no way that just happened.
“Did any of them cover weapons with you?”
Right. Back to business.
“Briefly. I mean, we were mostly sparring and correcting my technique. I figured we’d get to that later.”
“It’s later,” he deadpans as he grabs one by the blade and angles the handle towards me, waiting for my response. I tentatively raise my hand and he slaps the handle into my open palm.
It’s lighter than I thought it would be, probably only a pound, but the blade looks vicious. I absent-mindedly poke the tip, accidentally giving myself a little cut. I hiss as a drop of blood wells to the surface before I stick my finger in my mouth, pushing with my tongue to seal it together.
“It’s sharp,” I mutter around the finger still in my mouth.
“Another excellent observation, Madeline.” His tone is dry, but I’m shocked. A second joke in the span of a minute? Maybe I did pass out at some point, maybe this is all a hallucination.
Who the hell is this guy?
“Shouldn’t we be starting with something, I don’t know, less deadly?”
“You can’t die, remember?”
“I can’t, but you can.”
He quirks an eyebrow at me, like that’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard in his life. He clears his throat in a way that almost sounds like he’s trying to cover a laugh. I’m not an idiot. I know I can’t kill him on purpose with my current skill set, but accidents happen! I don’t want to have to explain to the guys I somehow managed to gut their fearless leader.
“Worried you’re going to hurt me?”
“If not you, then myself. I can still feel pain, you know?”
“Then don’t hurt yourself.” His tone is pure command, no more joking. “Go on.” He widens his stance and tilts his chin up, every inch of him the picture of confidence, even with so many of his most vulnerable spots are exposed.
“What?”
“Try and kill me. You won’t even be able to cut me. I can promise that.”
God damn it. Of course he thinks I’m completely incapable. Sure, I could barely keep up with his instruction for the first portion of our training, but it’s infuriating that he doesn’t see me as even a little bit of a threat.
Fine. If he wants me to hurt him, who am I to deny that?
I grip the handle securely and move as quickly as I can, lunging out and swinging the blade for the center of his torso.
In one smooth movement, he catches my wrist midway through its arc. One hand connects with the front of my wrist, and he strikes the back of my hand with the other. The impact makes my wrist bend forward, and my fingers lose grip on the rubber coated handle. The only sound is the knife clattering to the floor nearly six feet away. Holy shit, he’s so much faster than me.
The smile he’s giving me is full of false innocence, like he didn’t just shatter any faith I had that I might be able to do some damage if I really needed to. If I wasn’t so irritated, I’d take longer to study his smile, and add it to my new mental collection of all the smiles he’s shown me today.
But I’m not here to ogle him, I’m locked in, and a fire is building inside me. The knife shines up at me from the floor as my mind runs a mile a minute. Desperate to figure out how to approach this. How to win. He’s right. I’m not prepared, and I’m going to change that.
“Show me,” I huff. “Show me how to hurt you.”
“You already know how to hurt me.” Any levity on his face shatters in an instant, the little bit of light in his eyes is smothered entirely. Gone is the playful trainer eager to teach, instead I see an honesty that slams me back to last night.
He doesn’t elaborate further, his comment is an admission that he remembers everything that happened, and he knows I remember too. It’s a confirmation that he’s not taking the moment back, not sidestepping or minimizing the honesty of his words.
Dane leaves the knife on the floor, letting it stay there to stare at me. Taunt me. He pinches another blade between his fingers and presents it to me. I reach out with my palm facing up, and he smacks it with the hilt.
“Not like that.” He jerks his head to the knife on the floor. “It’s too easy to lose it. Turn your hand.”
I flip my hand and grab the handle from above, my palm facing the floor. It feels unnatural, like the blade, and therefore my defense, is pointing in the wrong direction.
“It feels wrong.”
“It will until you’re used to it. Think of it like you’re stabbing downward, not jabbing forward.”
I take an exploratory swing, slow and steady, getting familiar with the weight, the movement, and the angle of my arm.
“Now, if I were to grab you the same way…” He reaches for my wrist while his voice trails off.
I move without being instructed to, angling the blade so it’s between my forearm and his hand. He rests his hand on the sharp edge, and the calloused flesh of his palm looks unbelievably delicate against the unforgiving steel.
“Good. Now no one can grab you like that without being sliced open.” He takes a step back, and my body relaxes now that the space between us has been reestablished. “You can also slash better with this grip.” He shows me the movement he wants me to copy, his arm making an arc in front of him like he’s punching with a hook. He keeps his other hand up, defending his face.
He shows me a few maneuvers, launching me into another set of rigorous drills, watching me closely for anything he can adjust. Every small misstep is corrected immediately, and it feels like we’re moving through time in slow motion. It takes forever to cover what he says are the absolute basics. His relentless attention to even my smallest movements ensures there are no errors, no miniscule mistakes that could cost me.
I’m grateful for every second of it. Not that I’d ever let him know that.
I know I’m taking this seriously, and with each comment and every note he gives me, I know he is too. He’s just as dedicated to making sure I’m capable. Finally some common ground.
Who knew it would only take a knife clattering to the ground?
“Okay, we’ll move on for now.”
“Already? I feel like I’m just starting to get it.”
“Barely, but you need to know how to protect yourself more than you need to know how to correctly stab someone,” he says, his voice harsh, but that small, playful smile is back on his face and it soothes some of the sting from his sharp honesty.
He pulls the knife from my hand, and I didn’t notice until now just how tight my fingers had gotten. I flex my hand, gently rubbing each knuckle, urging the joints to loosen after being held so tightly for so long.
When I look up, I see him standing by the table, a new knife in his hand. The blade shines more brilliantly than the rest, like it’s been polished recently.
“I’m going to come at you now.”
My heart stops in my chest and for the first time I feel fear when I’m looking at him. “Wait! Don’t you need to show me how first?”
“No.”
My stomach sinks, but he doesn’t approach like I expect him to. He doesn’t lunge for me. Instead, he twirls the knife around his fingers, the fluorescent lights catching the sleek metal of the blade as it floats around his hand, seemingly unbound by the laws of nature. I’m mesmerized by the movement, distracted by how graceful it looks.
His smile grows. The beauty of it is slightly out of focus behind the spinning metal, but it gives me just enough warning to know he’s about to make a move. I steady myself and drop my center of gravity, and Ray’s lessons guide my limbs as if it’s instinct.
He never attacked me with a knife, but he did tell me how to defend myself in more basic terms. So, I wait, doing my best to anticipate any movement Dane might make. I barely get a second before he makes his move, lunging forward and swinging the blade at me. He aims directly for my throat.
I rear back, avoiding the contact and drop my shoulder as soon as I’m safe from that first swing. It gives me enough momentum to launch forward and position myself behind him.
“Good!” he shouts, but his attack doesn’t stop.
He turns back to me, swinging faster without sacrificing control. He doesn’t cut me, but he anticipates my movement, anticipates I’ll dodge in the same way. He smirks, tossing his knife from one hand to the next as he kicks his leg out and hooks it around mine, sending me to the floor. The unforgiving concrete slams into the back of my head and the room spins around me.
Dane drives down and plunges the knife into my stomach. His face is stony. Resolute.
I scream in anticipation of the pain. This wouldn’t be the first time my gut was torn into, but I was really hoping I’d never have to experience it again.
The pain doesn’t come, and I’m left on the floor panting and waiting for some horrible delayed reaction. Dane tilts his head, his eyebrows raised in quiet victory. I tense as he lifts the knife out of my stomach. But blood doesn’t spill out. My skin doesn’t catch on the edge. Instead, the blade extends from the handle, completely clean.
“It was fake?” I gasp, taking deep breaths and willing my heart to slow down.
“For now. Can’t afford wasting time on you healing, but I needed to know how you move on instinct. Not bad, by the way.” He holds his hand out in an offer to help me stand, but I wave him off.
“I need a moment.” My voice trembles, and I hate myself for it. He doesn’t care how scared I was, and letting him hear my scream, the depth of that fear, makes me want to curl in on myself. To hide away where he can’t see me. But I don’t have that luxury, there’s only so much time left.
I would have been screwed if that was a real knife. Dane’s right, It would have easily been a week before I was ready for anything strenuous again. That’s including the days I might have been writhing in bed, begging for whatever pain management they were able to give me.
I shake out my arms in an effort to loosen the grip adrenaline has on my muscles. Everything feels too light, and I can’t stand it. I hate that I don’t feel like I’m in full control of my limbs. I hold one arm up to him, and he doesn’t hesitate, grabbing my hand and hauling me up.
“Go again?” I whisper, my voice gravelly.
Dane looks shocked by my question, like he didn’t anticipate me wanting to continue. He probably thought I was going to quit or let this devolve into another screaming match.
“No. It wouldn’t be very helpful.” When I quirk my eyebrow at him, he continues, “You should see the correct way to avoid attacks before going again. Your instincts were good, but I could have killed you three times over, and I was holding back.”
Fair enough.
My movements weren’t the cleanest, but with no real instruction, I’m impressed with myself. Even Dane had something nice to say, and something squeezes in my chest about it.
Dane throws the fake knife back onto the table and hands me another one. I push gently on the tip, trying to test the mechanism that allows it to sink into the handle so smoothly, but all I do is give myself another small cut.
“You don’t want me to use the fake one?”
“I don’t need it.”
“Are you sure? I don’t wa-”
“I don’t want my technique slipping because I’m playing pretend in training.” He fixes me with a hard stare. “The same reason you shouldn’t be getting promised you won’t be flipped while sparring. That doesn’t help you. If someone wants to hurt you, Madeline,” he pauses and shakes his head, “they’re not going to ask for permission. They’re not going to abide by any rules you lay out, and you need to act with the same mindset. If you get the chance, if you see an opening, go for the kill. There’s no room for politeness when your life is on the line.”
The intensity of his warning slams me back to reality. I know as well as anyone there are people out there who are more than willing to cause me harm, but having it laid out so plainly is jarring in a completely different way. Soon we’ll be walking into a space, potentially filled to the brim with people who are stronger and better trained than me. I alone am responsible for keeping myself safe in that building. No one is going to save me. No one ever has.
“Alright. Let’s go then,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the knife.
I think about the speed of his movements, about the instruction he’s given me as I desperately try to calm my racing heart. I’m not deluding myself by thinking I’m going to be much of a fight for him, but I’ll be damned if I let him knock the knife out of my hand again.
He’s watching me closely this time, and it lights a little fire of pride in my chest. Sometime over the last few hours he’s adjusted his assessment of my abilities. He thinks I might be a threat now.
I adjust my grip on the knife and sink down into my stance, trying to ready myself without giving too much away.
The first move I make is anticipated, a quick lunge towards him, angled slightly to the right. He, of course, dodges effortlessly, but he comes much closer to being caught by my returning slash. I hold back the satisfied grin while he shifts, guessing I would follow my instincts, but I don’t.
I fake left before swiping at his right side and my blade narrowly misses his ribs.
We circle each other, both laser focused on the other’s movements. Neither of us willing to make the first mistake.
I swing out like I’m going to punch him with my left arm and pull back before he can grab me, channeling my body’s momentum into slashing as fast as I can.
He doesn’t anticipate my speed, my adaptability. He didn’t think I would even consider a maneuver like this, so he leans into me, reaching for my hand, a smug look on his face as he thinks he’s about to disarm me again.
Everything happens in a second.
Dane leans in too close. My arm swings at him. My heart clenches. The blade shines as it slashes through the air, straight for him.
It’s too fast. It’s all too fast and I can’t stop the momentum.
I can only watch as the blade bites into his face, the razor-sharp edge slicing along his cheek.