Wednesday night, we make love slowly in his bed. Careful of my still-recovering body, both of us learning each other without crisis pushing us together.
"I love you," he says afterward, my head on his chest.
"I know. You told me in the hospital while I was unconscious."
He tenses. "You heard that?"
"Some of it. Enough." I trace his ribs with my finger.
"I shouldn't have—"
"Don't." I silence him with a kiss. "Don't apologize for loving me fast. I fell just as quickly."
Thursday-Friday, October 14-15
By Thursday, I'm stronger. Dance practice intensifies—fouettés, sustained balances, building back my principal dancer stamina. My ankle holds. The swelling is manageable.
Combat training advances. Maksim doesn't go easy on me anymore—he attacks faster, varies his approaches, forces me to think tactically.
"Exits," he says during Thursday afternoon’s session. "You're in a room with one door, two windows. Where do you go?"
"The door if it's clear, window if it's blocked."
"Wrong. You go where your opponent isn't looking. If he's blocking the door, you make him think you're going for the window, then slip past him while he's committed."
He teaches me to read body language—the tells before an attack, the shifts in weight that telegraph movement. "You already know this," he says. "You read dancers' bodies on stage. This is the same, just with different consequences."
Friday evening, he takes me to the basement range.
I've never fired a gun. Never wanted to. They're loud and brutal and everything ballet isn't.
"You don't have to like it," Maksim says, demonstrating proper grip on a 9mm Glock. "You just have to be able to use it if everything else fails."
My hands shake the first time. The recoil startles me. I miss the target completely.
"Again," he says patiently.
By the end of the session, I can load, aim, and fire. Not well. But it's a start.
That night, I wake at 2:00 AM from nightmares—Anton's voice, the fall, the poisoned tea, the hospital. Maksim is immediately awake, pulling me against his chest.
"You're safe," he murmurs in Russian. "I've got you. You're safe."
"For two more weeks. Then—"
"Then you'll be ready." His arms tighten. "I promise, Sonya. You'll be ready."
Saturday-Sunday, October 16-17
The weekend brings intensity.
Saturday morning, I'm at seventy percent strength. I work through Giselle combinations—the ballet Anton wants me to perform, the ballet that should have been my triumph instead of my destruction.
"I need to know this perfectly," I tell Maksim, drilling the Act II variations. "If Anton wants a performance, I'll give him one. But on my terms."
He watches from the window, coffee in hand, his eyes tracking every movement. I can feel his gaze on me—not just protective anymore. Admiring. Hungry.
Combat training that afternoon is aggressive. He doesn't hold back. I counter his attacks, use his momentum against him, break his hold three times before he finally pins me to the mat.
