She groans, mutters something about sadists, but plants her palms and pushes back into position. Weak. Sloppy. But she doesn’t stop. Not when her arms buckle, not when her chest hits the mat. She claws her way through the reps anyway, sweat dripping off her chin.
“More,” I order.
Her hoodie rides up as she lowers to the mat, arms shaking before she’s even halfway through the first push-up. She collapses, groaning.
“Again.”
She mutters something under her breath but pushes up anyway, muscles trembling. Weak. But she doesn’t quit. Not after five, not after ten. She drags herself through fifteen, collapsing flat on the mat.
“Don’t stop, Mary.”
She groans, rolls to her elbows, body stiff and trembling like she’s about to snap in half. Sweat drips down her temple. She looks up at me, hair sticking to her cheek, eyes blazing. Defiant.
My chest tightens. I shouldn’t be watching her like this, shouldn’t be noticing the stubborn curve of her mouth, the flush crawling up her throat, the way her arms give out as she tries to stop.
But I don’t let her. “Again,” I growl, and she drags herself back up, shaky and cursing under her breath.
Her eyes snap to mine, blazing. Daggers. Fury, sharp and hot.
Good. Let her hate me. Let her burn. Fire means she’s alive. Fire means she won’t fold the second someone bigger, meaner, faster comes for her.
Tears, anger, whatever—doesn’t matter. Weak is what gets you killed. Rage? Rage I can use.
She wants to quit. I can see it in the slump of her shoulders, the way her eyes flick toward the clock, begging for mercy. But she doesn’t get mercy. Not here. Not from me.
Because if Timofey’s assassin ever finds her, she won’t last a minute. She’s too soft, too breakable. One blade, one bullet, and she’s gone.
The image of her body on the ground, pulse stilled, hits me like a fucking gunshot. Something inside me snaps.
I realize it then. I won’t let it happen. Not to her.
Her chest heaves, sweat dripping onto the mat. She’s red-faced, trembling, muttering curses that sound like they belong to somebody’s chain-smoking grandmother.
“Burpees are for demons,” she gasps, dragging herself upright for the last round. “This is how I die. Right here. Cause of death: sadistic Russian gym torture.”
I grunt, ugly and sharp. The sound rips out of me before I can stop it. She freezes mid-motion, wide-eyed, then breaks into a strangled laugh.
“Was that… was that a laugh, Anton? Or did your soul just… collapse?” She groans, flopping into the last burpee like she’s collapsing into her grave.
It should irritate me. She should irritate me. But instead I’m standing here with sweat running down my spine, fighting a smirk like a fucking idiot.
“Finish it,” I tell her.
She does—barely—before face-planting onto the mat, limbs spread out, soaked in sweat.
“I’m supposed to be asleep right now,” she groans into the floor. “Like normal people. Who don’t train for the apocalypse before dawn.”
I walk over, towering above her wrecked body. She peeks up at me with narrowed, hate-filled eyes. I hold out my hand.
“Up.”
She glares like she’d rather spit on it. Still, she takes it. Her palm is damp, trembling in mine. I haul her to her feet.
“I’m proud of your effort.”
She shuts up instantly, lips parting like she doesn’t know what to do with that. Color floods her face, hotter than before. She smiles—small, uncertain—then drops her arm over her eyes like she can hide from me.
“But…” she pants, catching her breath, “it feels good after the torture.” A pause. Then, quieter, almost embarrassed: “Like sex.”
