Page 78 of Nemesis

“No need. We’re shadow-boxing today.”

I use my context clues. “You want me to punch…the air?”

Vasiliy grins. “Yep.”

Great. That’s going to look way more pathetic than the breathing lesson.

I’m not sure when I started sweating.

The early spring air is still cool enough to offer respite from the sun, but that doesn’t stop perspiration from dripping down my brow and burning my eyes. I blink furiously.

After learning a short combination of punches and ducks, Vasiliy started drilling the pattern, correcting my posture and form every few repetitions. I’m excellent at picking up combinations quickly. I used to be, at least. It seems the versatility I was so proud of doesn’t transfer over to boxing, or whatever invisible foe I’m supposed to be attacking in the air.

“Not quite,” I hear behind me, followed by a low tsk. “Try again. Use your breath to move faster.”

No idea what that’s supposed to mean, but it’s actually nice to have such a specific objective to focus on. Stay in form. Learn the combination. Execute it faster. Once my brain accepts the simple pathway, I’m able to move with a bit more precision. It’s a rhythm—not so different from any other beat I’ve moved to.

“Good,” he praises. “Again.”

Squaring up into my fighting stance, I start over. The pattern clears my mind, brushing aside every other thought. There’s only the combination. Left arm. Right arm. Duck. Right, right…

Footsteps crunch the gravel behind us. I freeze, immediately dropping my arms. A group of soldiers walks out of the house, cutting a path directly to one of the shiny black cars parked in the roundabout. They eye us curiously in the distance, as though we’re an anomaly in their controlled environment.

“Has it been an hour?” I ask quietly, looking back at the grass.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Car doors shut in the distance, and then an engine fires up.

“It has,” he finally says. “You did well⁠—”

I’m already walking across the stone walkway to the house.

Aknock sounds at the door.

I press my face further into my pillow, legs stiffening beneath the blanket.

“Octavia?”

Go away.

Voicing the thought is too much effort. I don’t move. Maybe if I’m still enough, I’ll eventually disappear, and everyone will finally leave me the fuck alone.

“Octavia,” the deep voice repeats, closer this time. “I saw you out today, training with the Morozov boy.”

My muscles ache at the memory. Secretly, I’d been hoping the act of getting out of bed and into the sunlight would be enough to snap me out of this haze. I felt everyone watching me. Waiting to see if I was cured from whatever cowardice was keeping me in the bedroom.

“I’m tired,” I whisper, not bothering to flip around and face him. “Can we talk some other time, Dad?”

When he doesn’t respond, I close my eyes, hoping he’ll cut his losses and leave me be. Facing him is the last thing I want to do right now. I didn’t even have the energy to shower when I stormed back into the room earlier this afternoon and collapsed into the blankets. That simple act takes so much work these days—pulling off every bandage strapped to my skin, cleaning what’s underneath, patting it all dry, wrapping it all back up.

I tried. Well, I at least thought about trying to get my ass up and into the fancy glass shower standing only ten steps away. I’ve had the room to myself for a few hours since our training session, but I haven’t bothered to move. Whatever rhythm or focus I found in the courtyard is long gone by now, nothing but a distant memory.

Unfortunately, when I feel the bed dip beside me, I know he’s going to make another attempt.

Stubborn.

He’s stubborn because I’m stubborn.

“It was good to see you up, love. I was hoping you’d come down for family dinner⁠—”