"If you run out of bullets," he repeats, "you are dead. Unless you know how to bleed someone."
He tosses one of the knives onto the mattress. It lands with a heavy thud next to my leg.
"Outside."
The clearing in front of the cabin is covered in a layer of fresh, powdery snow. The air is so cold it burns my lungs with every inhale, tasting of pine resin and ice.
Silas stands ten feet away from me. He holds his knife in a reverse grip, the blade lying flat against his forearm. He looks relaxed. Loose.
I hold mine the way I’ve seen in movies—point out, shaking slightly.
"Stop shaking," he barks. "You’re telegraphing your fear. If I’m your enemy, I already know I’ve won because your hand is trembling."
"I’m freezing," I snap back, my breath puffing out in white clouds.
"Adrenaline warms the blood. Attack me."
I blink. "What?"
"Attack me. Try to cut me."
"Silas, I’m not going to—"
"Ivy," he interrupts, his voice dropping to that dangerous, soft register. "Nikolai’s men won't ask you nicely. They won't care if you're cold. They will drag you into a van and they will peel your skin off. Now, attack me."
He steps forward. He swipes his knife through the air. It’s a feint, fast and terrifyingly close to my face.
I yelp and jump back, slipping on the snow. I barely keep my balance.
"Too slow," he taunts. "You’re dead. Try again."
Anger flares in my chest. It’s a hot, welcome spark. He’s mocking me. He’s treating me like a child after I proved I could kill for him.
I lunge.
I aim for his chest. It’s a clumsy, desperate thrust.
Silas sidesteps effortlessly. He catches my wrist with his free hand, twisting it painfully. He spins me around and slams my back against his chest.
Suddenly, his knife is at my throat. The cold steel presses against the pulse point, right above the diamond choker I’m still wearing under my thermal gear.
"Dead," he whispers in my ear.
He releases me and shoves me forward. I stumble into the snow.
"Again."
I turn around, panting. "You’re stronger than me! It’s not fair!"
"Fair is a fairy tale," he growls. "You think a Russian enforcer cares about weight classes? You don't fight fair, Ivy. You fight dirty. You use your size. You get inside their guard."
He waits.
I circle him. I watch his eyes. They aren't looking at my knife. They’re looking at my hips, my shoulders, reading my movement before I make it.
I need to distract him.
I step closer. I lower the knife slightly. I let my lips part, letting out a soft, pained sound.
