“Break. Then we move to firearms.”
The gun feelswrong 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.”
