I don't let go of his fingers once I'm on my feet.
"You felt something," I say, close enough that my breath hits his skin. "When you had me down."
"I was executing your order, sir."
"That wasn't an order." My voice drops. "That was you."
His hand trembles once—a tiny, betraying movement he clamps down on immediately.
I step closer, still holding him.
"What I wrote years ago was paper," I say. "It wasn't the whole of you."
He pulls his hand free with quiet force.
"With respect, sir," he says, his tone steady enough to draw blood. "You wrote exactly what I would become. You built it. You ran it. And now you're angry that it works."
He turns away and reaches for his gear.
I watch him put himself back together: holster strapped, blade secured, jacket on. Each motion returns him to the version that doesn't bleed in front of me.
He faces me again.
Blank. Correct. Waiting.
"Will there be anything else, sir?"
Fear hits me so suddenly it's almost laughable—an old, familiar cold that makes my throat tighten. I haven't felt it like this since I was a child with my mother's blood on my hands.
Not fear of him.
Fear of losing him.
"Go," I say. The word scrapes.
He nods once and leaves the gym.
The door closes behind him with a soft, final sound.
I remain on the mat, breathing hard. My shoulders ache where his fingers dug in. The heat in my body lingers, sharp and angry, even though he has walked out.
I lift my hand to touch the spot where he held me down.
My knuckles are still wrapped, the cloth damp.
I stare at the door, then move toward it, taking one slow step at a time, as if giving myself a chance to stop before doing something irreversible.
I reach for the handle.
12
MAKSIM
I've been countingsince the gym.
Not on a clock. It's a running mark scratched into the back of my mind. The moment Ivan hit the mat and I was on him, when my hands pinned him—something tore loose.
I keep replaying it because my body keeps replaying it.
