I just stare at him, completely out of words. Then, with a groan, I throw my hands up in the air like some cartoon character waving a white flag.
“Fine. Whatever. Do your thing. Ruin my life, scare my grandma, and—God help me—train me.”
Anton’s mouth curves, the smallest ghost of a smile, like I’ve just given him exactly what he wanted.
And that’s the problem.
Because maybe I have.
21
Anton
The SUV reeks of leather, the bags of groceries Dima insisted on stuffing in the back, and Mary’s shampoo. Something floral I can’t place, soft and clean, threading through the heavier smells. Doesn’t belong here.
She sits with her arms crossed like she’s on trial, lips pressed together so tight I half expect her teeth to crack.
“You know,” she mutters finally, staring out the window, “most people text before showing up at a seventy-three-year-old woman’s house with… I don’t know, groceries.”
Lev twists around from the front seat, grin wide. “We brought eggs too.”
“Yeah,” she shoots back without looking at him. “That makes it fine.”
Boris doesn’t glance up from the tablet in his lap. “Texts don’t make omelets.”
Lev snorts, pleased with himself. Mary whirls on him, hazel eyes sparking.
“You can’t just— Ugh.” She sinks back against the seat, cheeks flushed.
Boris chuckles under his breath, shaking his head.
I don’t say a damn thing. Because I’m busy watching her. Not the way I usually watch—calculated, assessing threat vectors, noting the angle of her spine, where she’s carrying tension. This is different. She’s not shrinking anymore. Not scared silent. She’s biting back, showing teeth, snapping at Lev like she belongs in this car.
For a breath, it unsettles me. Then it settles in, like gravity I can’t fight. Heat coils low, steady, dangerous. She should be terrified of me, of them, of the whole damn picture. Instead, she leans closer to the fire. Closer to us.
Lev’s got the wheel this time, Dima riding shotgun. Which leaves Mary pressed against the window in the back, Boris jammed between us with his tablet propped on his knees. She looks trapped but not scared—annoyed, twitching with too much energy to keep her mouth shut.
“So,” she says finally, eyes cutting from me to Lev’s reflection in the rearview. “What exactly are we training today?”
Lev grins at her in the mirror. “Depends. You want the fun version or the terrifying version?”
“Neither,” she says flatly. “I want the normal version. Preferably one that doesn’t involve anyone pulling a knife.”
“Then it won’t be normal,” Boris mutters, thumbs flicking over his screen.
Mary groans. “Okay, then why do all of you need to come? Isn’t this a one-teacher, one-student situation?”
Lev barks a laugh. “What? You think we’d miss this? Dima’s been dying for entertainment all week.”
Dima doesn’t even look up. “I don’t die for anything.”
Boris smirks. “He does, however, kill for entertainment.”
Mary blinks. “Not comforting, Boris.”
He shrugs like that’s her problem.
Lev drums his fingers on the steering wheel, tone sing-song. “Truth is, we’re all here to witness history. The day Mary Sullivan throws her first punch.”
