“Prove it.”
I straighten.
“Boots,” I say. “Two minutes.”
I turn and walk away. There’s a rustle of movement behind me. The soft thud of her feet hitting the floor.
She listens.Good.
The gym stays at sixty degrees to keep the sweat down and the mind sharp.
I stand by the mats, wrapping my hands tight. The black tape bites into my skin, reinforcing the knuckles. It’s a ritual. A way of armoring myself.
Iris walks in.
She’s wearing the leather boots. They look ridiculous on her small feet, clunky and oversized, but she laced them tight. She’s pulled her hair back into a severe ponytail, exposing the clean line of her neck.
She stands like a soldier who hasn’t seen war yet.
“What do I do?” she asks, standing on the edge of the mat.
“Take off the sweater,” I say. “You’ll overheat.”
She hesitates before grabbing the hem of the cashmere and pulling it over her head.
Underneath, she’s wearing a black tank top she must have found in the duffel bag. It’s tight, clinging to her torso. Her arms are slender. The bandage on her shoulder is stark white against her skin.
I force my eyes off the bruises and the tight stretch of fabric across her chest, grinding my jaw to maintain focus.
I walk to the armory cabinet on the far wall and punch in the code. The metal doors slide open, revealing racks of weapons.Guns, batons, blades. I pick up a solid rubber training knife, weighted to mimic steel, and toss it to her.
She catches it, fumbling with the handle.
“A knife is the great equalizer,” I say. “It doesn’t require strength. It requires intent.”
“You want me to stab you?”
“I want you to learn where to stab,” I say, pointing to my own body for the lesson. “The neck,” I say, tracing the carotid artery. “The groin. The inner thigh. Soft targets. High-value targets.”
I step closer.
“Grip it like a hammer,” I instruct. “Ice-pick grip. Blade down.”
She adjusts her grip, strangling the rubber handle.
“Now,” I say. “Come at me.”
“Cassian—”
“Come at me!” I roar.
She lunges. It’s sloppy, but it’s fast. She aims for my chest.
I side-step, catching her wrist with my left hand and guiding the momentum past me.
I don’t throw her this time, stepping in instead.
I spin her around, slamming her back against my chest. Then, I lock my arm across her throat, holding her there while I trap her knife hand with my other hand, pinning it to her stomach.
