His words are for Cleo, but I see his compliance in his eyes. He will take care of my woman for me. I smile even wider when he pulls her into his side, his eyes now scanning the crowd.
He will protect her with his life.
Turning back to the scene in front of me, I watch as a man brings two swords out.
I test the weight of the wakizashi in my hand. Not bad. Doesn’t seem sabotaged. The challenge is a fight of honor, but that’s not to say others in the past haven’t tried to sway things their way. I wouldn’t put it past my father to be one of those. It would cause some of his men to lose faith in him, but they would have to catch him in the act.
“Fight,” a man calls after a moment, indicating the start of this challenge.
I watch my father, his eyes trained on me as well. He fakes an attack to the right, but I don’t move toward it. It’s what he is expecting. Instead, I stay in my stance, watching his moves.
He never taught me to watch my opponent, but I learned on my own. How to read the other person’s body language. My father never wanted me to be able to best him, so he only taught me what I needed to know to survive a fight.
It wasn’t until I took boxing classes I learned about reading your opponent.
Then I took taekwondo classes, which taught me self-restraint. How to be patient.
My own reckless youth taught me to take a punch. Or a knife. Hell, even a bullet. Yet I still move.
So on his second move, he doesn’t fake it, coming at me with a jab of his sword. I move in time, avoiding him, while still not attacking him.
“What is it, boy? Too afraid to hit your father? Weak from that worthless piece of space your mother was.”
He’s trying to distract me, but it won’t work. I never knew my mother, so his words about her won’t hurt me. Not anymore. They might have in the past because of being a hormonal teen with rage issues, but not now.
I don’t answer him, letting him move in again.
After the third time he moves in, I can tell his demeanor has changed. He’s frustrated.
Good.
That means he will make a mistake.
The fourth move toward me, I finally strike, stepping out of the way, but moving forward into his space.
This time, I feel the slice of the sword against my left arm, but I ignore the pain, pressing my blade into his left shoulder.
He gasps, jumping back.
He looks down at his shoulder, touching the shallow wound that is now bleeding.
I smirk at him. “Oh, is your shoulder hurting?”
“You little asshole.”
He attacks again, this time a little more reckless.
Ah. There it is.
The only times I have ever come close to beating him in the past was when he lost his cool. If I can keep pressing the right buttons, I can beat him.
Father swings the sword wildly toward my neck, dropping down, I roll to the side as I swipe his legs with the blade, creating a gash on his upper thigh.
I stand and circle him, waiting to see what he does next.
Round and round we go with him getting angrier and angrier as we go. I play with him like a predator plays with its food. Not giving him the chance to get away but drawing this out long enough.
“You're letting a whore come between you and your family,” he says as he pants, out of breath.
