I grit my teeth and slam another combo into the pads. Left hook. Right cross. Step back. Breathe. The slap of leather echoesthrough the empty gym, louder than my heartbeat, louder than my thoughts.
He shifts, testing me, moving the pads just out of reach. “Use your hips. Drive from here.” His massive hand taps my waist.
I adjust. Twist harder. The punch lands with a crack that makes my shoulders jolt.
“Yes.” He nods once, like the nod is worth more than a gold medal.
I jab again. My arms are shaking, sweat dripping down the back of my neck, tank top plastered to me like glue. But I keep going. Because stopping means thinking. And thinking means Anton.
Anton, who decided I wasn’t good enough to eat pasta with.
Anton, who can’t even look at me but apparently can send his giant soldier to play trainer.
Anton, who makes my chest hurt in ways I don’t want to put words to.
Dima suddenly jerks forward, throwing a slow right hook at my head. Reflex takes over; I get my glove up in time, but the angle’s wrong, and my own fist smacks me in the cheek.
“Ow.” My voice comes out muffled against the wrap. I shake my head, wincing. “Great. Beaten up by myself. New level unlocked.”
One of his eyebrows twitches. Which, for Dima, is basically falling on the floor laughing.
He throws another punch, sharper this time.
“Your enemies don’t stop because you are tired. They don’t care if you hit yourself.”
I duck, barely. Air rushes past my ear. My legs burn as I swing clumsily at his ribs, but he pivots like it’s nothing. My glove cuts through empty space.
“Damn it.” My arms feel like lead, my body dragging behind my brain. I’m so keyed up on adrenaline and spite that I forget the part where I actually need to connect.
Tomorrow. The gala. The word hisses through my head like static. The dress code Caleb texted me, the luxury hotel—The Bellagio the one with the gold ceilings and the high-roller casino tucked behind mirrored walls. All I can see is glitter and strangers’ eyes on me. And Caleb smiling that too-smooth smile like he already owns me.
I stumble.
That’s all Dima needs. He hooks his leg behind my ankle and sweeps. I jolt back, arms windmilling, barely catching myself on the ropes.
“Focus,” he snaps.
“I am.” My breath saws out of me, half-laugh, half-snarl. “Just… not on this exact second, apparently.”
He tilts his head, dark eyes pinning me like he can see straight through my skull. Like he knows exactly where my thoughts went. He doesn’t push, though. Just steps back, pads raised again, waiting.
So I unload. Every jab, every hook, every pathetic burst of fury at him, at Anton, at tomorrow, at myself for still giving a damn. I hit until my shoulders scream and my lungs feel like I swallowed fire.
By 7:15, my arms are noodles. My lungs are on fire. And somehow, I feel better. Not good. Just… less likely to cry or set something on fire.
Dima lowers the pads, handing me a towel.
“Strong,” he says simply. Which, coming from him, is practically poetry.
“Strongly pissed off,” I mutter, wiping sweat off my face.
His mouth quirks, almost a smile. “Good. Use it.”
I drop onto the bench, gulp water from a bottle, and try to remember who the hell I was a week ago. Not this person. Not the girl who trains like she’s inRockybefore breakfast.
Speaking of breakfast, my new job apparently includes that too.
Because of course it does. Boris makes sure to remind me every night what groceries are running low, like I’m suddenly his personal Costco delivery. Lev demands pancakes “with personality,” whatever the hell that means, like I’m auditioning forTop Chef: Mob Edition.
