He pauses, eyes settling on me. “But you’ll learn. Or you’ll fail.”
I’m not even sure I care which.
The instructor scans his clipboard again. “Ashthorne.”
I lift my chin.
He points to a narrow hallway off to the left. “Changing room. Training uniforms are waiting in your size. You’ve got two minutes.”
No one else moves. No one else needs to change, they are already changed. Of course. I nod stiffly and duck through the door.
Inside, the room is cold and bare—metal lockers, a bench, and a single matte-black uniform folded neatly on the counter. I peel out of my uniform with shaking fingers. Slip into the training outfit which clings like a second skin—slick and tactical, high-collar, long-sleeves, and black from neck to heel.
I look ready to break into a museum.
By the time I step back into the training room, I can already feel their eyes.
Luca lets out a low whistle.
Noah doesn’t even try to hide the once-over he gives me.
Jace’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel the weight of his gaze.
Dakota gave me a reassuring smile,
“Better,” the instructor mutters, like I’m a tool finally polished.
I take my place on the mat next to Dakota, crossing my arms tight over my chest.
“Partner assignments,” the man barks. “These are not optional.”
“Ashthorne. Ward.”
Tex doesn’t say a word. Just jerks his chin toward the mat. Dakota squeezes my hand in silent support.
I walk toward him, every step heavier than the last. Luca has a look of amusement on his face while Noah has something close to pity. I hate both.
We take our positions.
“Basic blocking drill. Switch every five strikes,” the instructor calls out. “Begin.”
I brace myself, raising my hands. I barely have time to react before Tex moves.
Strike. Strike. Strike.
His movements are precise, effortless, like he’s been doing this since birth. I stumble back after the fourth hit, barely catching the fifth with a shaky forearm block.
“Switch,” the instructor says.
My turn. My strikes are hesitant. Clumsy. I barely graze him. He doesn’t flinch once, doesn’t even blink. When I finish the fifth, he doesn’t wait. He advances again, faster this time.
I block the first two, then he clips my side with a sharp jab that knocks the wind from my lungs. I cough, doubling over slightly, trying to breathe.
“You done?” he raises an eyebrow.
I look up at him. “No.”
Another round. Another barrage of hits I barely deflect. My skin stings. My arms tremble. Sweat slicks down my back.
