Page 86 of Nemesis

“You couldn’t hit a soda bottle three feet from your nose. How are you going to help her?” Kirill spits.

In a split second, something flies through the air, culminating in a wet smack. It takes a moment to realize that Ben’s pan is now empty, and the egg that was crackling in it seconds earlier is sliding down Kirill’s face, leaving behind a messy yellow trail of yolk.

“I was using that,” Ben deadpans.

“Sorry. Appeared that a demonstration of my impeccable aim was in order. I’ll make you another, cuz,” Nik says as he cracks open the fridge and reopens the carton.

“Oh, you little—” are the last words spoken by a furious Kirill before he tackles his attacker to the floor.

I grin, taking another sip of coffee.

My arms burn.

The bright sun beats down on my brow, drawing another hot bead of sweat into my eye. After nearly a week of practicing the six base punches Vas taught me with the bag, he woke me this morning with a steaming coffee and the brutal announcement that I’ve officially graduated to hand-to-hand combat. That’s when the day started going downhill.

Suddenly, an arm flies toward me, wrapping around my exposed neck and pressing my spine into an impossibly hard wall. I squirm in the hold to no avail, failing to loosen his grip.

“You have to pay attention,” a deep voice rumbles against my ear.

“I was paying attention.” I jerk forward, wrestling against the unbreakable plane of Vasiliy’s hardened body.

“Stop squirming,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “Break the hold like we practiced. Remember: your legs and hips are your strength. Use them to your advantage.”

I blow out a cold breath of air, grounding my legs in the base position we talked about earlier. “This is some bullshit MMA crap,” I complain between attempts, doubled over in exhaustion. “I thought you were teaching me to box.”

“Call me an interdisciplinary trainer, then,” he quips. “We’re going to cover every layer of self-defense I know. Don’t you wanna be a badass?”

Fuck being a badass. After nearly two hours of being twisted into a pretzel and eating about four different flavors of shit, I’m close to giving up on the whole girl boss dream.

For one, I’ve spent my entire life malnourished (both incidentally and on purpose), causing me to have the upper body strength of a T. rex. After years of weekly weigh-ins to make sure we were maintaining company standards, what muscle I do have is lean and cut, and extremely unhelpful when trying to overthrow a massive Russian brute.

For another, this whole deflating experience has brought on a fresh wave of cynicism. How could I ever learn to protect myself against someone so much bigger than me? It felt like a foolish daydream that floated further away each time I was shoved into the dirt. It doesn’t help that I feel like a flailing imbecile every time we do our freestyle warm-up against the bag.

I grip Vas’s arms, trying to hook my legs under his and throw him off balance just like we talked about. The old injury in my knee pulls with a familiar ache, taunting the effort. After so much practice, the pain is easily ignored.

But even after all that, the fucker doesn’t move an inch.

“Better.”

I squint my eyes. “Vas, can’t we find somewhere more private for me to embarrass myself in?” I try cutting my leg back behind his knee joint again, but somehow, I manage to knock myself off-balance.

Though the expansive courtyard in front of the stone mansion is relatively quiet, I can feel the burning attention of various soldiers on the back of my neck, and anyone in the spacious building above has a direct line of sight to my pity party.

“You are not an embarrassment. You are learning, Octavia,” he says sharply, using my full name for once.

“I am failing,” I say back. “And they are laughing at me.”

My balance falters. A high-pitched shout leaves my mouth a second before I land on Vasiliy’s chest. Then I’m rolling in the damp grass until each of my limbs is pressed down, and his face is hovering an inch above mine.

“You are not failing,” he repeats. “And if someone dares to laugh at you, I will cut out their throat before they can so much as suck in their next breath.”

“You will start a war,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

“I think your honor is the one subject your father and I can agree on.” He raises a brow. “But you are Octavia fucking Clarke. And you do not run away from anything.”

The words melt through my exhaustion and soreness, wringing out my precious pride.

“You are building. Rolling vital anchor stones across the field in summer heat. Right now, it looks like a messy collection of shit, and no one but us will be able to see the vision, but come winter, those stones will support the cabin that keeps us warm through the storms.”