His leg snapped out, sweeping my legs out from under me before I even had a second to register what was happening. I slammed on the mat and lay there, heaving.
“Shouldn’t I be punching a bag or something?” I asked when I caught my breath. “This feels like intermediate. I’m a beginner.”
I wiped the sweat off my brow as Wynn walked through the gym toward the kitchenette in the corner. The gym took up almost the entire floor, with a full selection of state-of-the-art weights, mats, treadmills, a Stairmaster, a punching and speed bag, and a range complete with life-sized human-shaped targets. For what kind of weapon, exactly? Ninja stars? Unsure, but it looked cool as fuck. The other side of this floor transitioned into a sauna and steam room because, of course, these assassins needed a spa.
Wynn grabbed two bottles of water from the mini-fridge, handing me one as he sat on the mat beside me. I drank the water greedily.
“You’re doing well,” he said after his drink. “You’re learning a new skill you’ve never been allowed to learn before. It takes time. In my opinion, it’s better to start with the real thing.”
I nodded, remembering what my father had told me the last time I asked him to have someone train me.Why, cuore mio? Why do you need that, when you have your father who will always take care of you?
Guess not, Dad.
“It’s frustrating. I’m weak.”
He nodded. “You are weak. But you will get stronger. Training your body is more of a mental effort than anything. You need persistence. Resilience. Fortitude. The rest comes when you are patient.”
Iwantedto be strong. I needed to be to kill Max, get my revenge, and finally start to heal the giant gaping hole in my heart. But did I have time to be patient? Did Cas?
Wynn watched me from the corner of his eye. “It’s a good distraction, too.”
He was right. The training had taken my thoughts away from worrying about Cas and tired me enough that I could trust Ciel was working on it without the urge to burst into his office every second. The urgency to get Cas back was still there, but the restlessness and anxiousness had ebbed.
“Thanks, Wynn.”
“You’re welcome.” He nudged my shoulder before standing and extending his hand down to me. “Come on. A few more rounds. Then food and a nap.”
I clasped his palm and let him pull me back to my feet.
Thirty minutes later,we were still lightly sparring, focusing on the fundamentals. I’d fallen on my ass another ten times, but each time Wynn had corrected what I’d done wrong, showing me how to maintain balance, how to swing a punch, how to watch for openings in his movements. I’d gotten within aninchof actually hitting him, but he dodged out of the way at the last second. Still, it was progress. My body would be dead after this, but I could learn. I could get better.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been put through the wringer. I took gymnastics from the age of eight to eighteen, the only physical activity my father allowed me to participate in. It made me strong before I gave it up. That muscle memory was slowly coming back. It wasn’t a one-to-one application of knowledge,but it helped with balance and muscle control, two things that Wynn deemed critical for hand-to-hand combat.
I circled him, my eyes on the movement of his feet.
In the last round, he told me to always anticipate your opponent’s moves. To thinkaheadabout what they would do. Which got me thinking.
What if Wynn had no idea what I was going to do?
In the next breath, I charged at him—which I’d done three matches before this one—and he moved precisely as I expected, leaning on his back foot in a semi-crouch and dropping his center of gravity. But this time, instead of swinging at him, I jumped, planting one foot on his thigh and using the momentum to swing my other leg around his shoulder, grab his neck, and use my weight to pull him down to the ground.
It was a messy, completely unhinged, and incorrect attempt at a move I saw in a movie once that had no businessactually working, but somehow, I got him! I surprised him enough that my weight threw him off balance, and we collapsed into a jumbled mess, my leg pinned behind his back and his body sprawled atop mine. With a grace that should be impossible at such speed, he detangled our limbs and flipped us both to land above me, with one hand on each side of my head.
“That move would never work in a real fight.” His eyes flared hot and bright, his breath heavy. “You’d be more injured than your opponent. Not only that, but you opened up your entire midsection and torso for gunshots or knife attacks.”
I grinned. Then I slammed my fists on the crooks of his elbows, made him momentarily collapse, and used my legs to twist around his so thatIrolled on top. I might be small, but my hips and thighs were stronger than I previously gave them credit.
“I know, but it worked now, didn’t it?” I straddled his body, with one hand on his chest and the other on the mat beside his head.
The corner of his mouth pulled up into a smile. “I guess it did.”
“I got you. I knocked you down,” I laughed. My back stung where I’d landed awkwardly, my legs were absolutely jelly, and even my fingers were exhausted, but it worked. “I did it!”
“You did it,” he murmured. His eyes roamed my face before locking on my lips. “You’re learning. I’m impressed.”
“I might have grown up a spoiled princess, but I’m a quick study,” I whispered. My legs still straddled him. My fingers splayed on his chest, acutely aware of the firmness of him beneath me.
“How did you know how to do something like that?” His voice went low while his hands traveled up the bare skin of my legs.
