🌙𝐋𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐡
Not even Olya could force a conversation at breakfast. No matter how much she poked and prodded, no one rose to her bait.
"You slouch," she murmured, her voice light but from a mile away you could see the malicious glint in her eyes.
Yet, I could not muster up the energy to care, not while Dmitri’s words were still playing in my head. I had been accused of things I had never been guilty of more tis than I could count.
Ajax and Charlotte being at the scene of the cri most of the ti.
Dmitri’s words stung so much because they were TRUE. He forced to face a fact that I would have preferred to never confront.
"...cursed mantle of obligation to those monsters..."
I physically flinched.
Thankfully, I didn’t choke.
Olya continued into the void because no one paid her mind until she wore herself out and chose to eat in silence.
I dreaded the day’s training but looked forward to it at the sa ti. Dmitri would be there. And despite how much his words had CUT yesterday, I wanted to prove him wrong. My guilt was warranted. My guilt did not hold back—it forced forward.
My guilt was the reason I wanted Kustav’s head on a platter.
It was the reason I strived so hard to be unbeatable.
Maybe it was a double-edged sword—driving forward while chaining to the past. But if that chain could pull through the duel, through Kustav’s downfall, through laying her to rest? Then I’d wear it.
I made sure not to make eye contact with any of them, even if I could feel the prickling heat of their stares on my body.
Dmitri was not there.
Icy orbs t mine, and I paused at the doorway. My chest had suddenly grown too constricted for my heart. After the dance incident and seeing him like that, after an obvious night escapade, we had barely exchanged a word.
It was not like it bothered .
I didn’t care in the slightest.
The awkwardness remained a solid, inescapable thing in the air already wrought with tension.
I held my breath as I walked in, glancing about the room. "Where is Dmitri?"
Vladimir’s gaze did not waver, nor did he reveal much as he replied. "Official assignnt." He took slow, asured steps towards , and with every distance that he crossed, my heart pounded wilder. "I will be your trainer for today’s session."
I nodded, trying not to look too hard at him.
But his training suit caught the sunlight that leaked through the high windows—a dark compression shirt that clung to every line of muscle I’d only glimpsed before, tactical pants that looked built for movent, boots ant for combat, not ceremony.
He looked... different.
Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with his title.
I swallowed hard and forced my gaze back to his face.
"Today is not about strength," he said, voice clipped and matter-of-fact. "You’ve shown steady improvent in that area. The boulder. The crushed flask. Your raw power is developing adequately."
Adequately. Of course.
He stopped a few feet away, pale eyes assessing with that cold, analytical look that made feel like a problem he was trying to solve.
"Today is about SPEED," he continued. "Reaction ti. Instinct. The ability to move without thinking, to strike without hesitation."
He stepped back into the center of the ring.
"The exercise is simple: land ONE hit on . Anywhere. Any thod." His voice was calm. Clinical. "One hit, and you can rest."
I blinked. "One hit?"
"Yes."
"That’s it?"
Sothing flickered in his eyes—amusent? Challenge?—but it was gone before I could be sure.
"That’s it," he confird. "You have until sundown."
My stomach dropped.
Sundown.
Which ant he expected this to take HOURS.
Which ant he didn’t think I could do it.
I lifted my chin, pride stinging. "And if I land the hit before then?"
"Then training ends early." His tone suggested he thought that highly unlikely. "But I wouldn’t count on it, Miss Brooks."
Miss Brooks.
The formality was a knife between my ribs.
Not Lilith. Not even a neutral address.
Just cold, distant Miss Brooks.
I pushed down the hurt and focused on the challenge. "Fine," I said, rolling my shoulders back. "When do we start?"
His lips curved slightly. It was not quite a smile, it was sharper, enough to cut.
"Now."
I did not wait, I lunged forward.
He sidestepped. Effortlessly. As though he’d known exactly where I’d strike before I did.
I spun, threw a punch—
He caught my wrist mid-air, redirected my montum, and released so smoothly it looked choreographed. "Predictable," he said flatly.
Heat flooded my face.
I tried again being faster this ti.
A feint left, then a strike right—
He blocked with his forearm, barely even looking. "Telegraphing."
Again.
And again.
And AGAIN.
Every strike I threw, he blocked.
Every angle I tried, he anticipated.
Every strategy I attempted, he dismantled.
And through it all, he barely spoke except to critique:
"Sloppy."
"Too slow."
"Again."
Never my na.
Always Miss Brooks when he bothered to address at all.
Never truly LOOKING at —just analyzing, assessing, finding wanting.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Then three.
My muscles scread.
Sweat soaked through my clothes.
My lungs burned.
But Vladimir looked exactly as he had when we started—composed, controlled, not even breathing hard.
Like I was nothing to him.
Like this was barely worth his ti. He seed almost bored. The cloud of frustration over my head had turned into a thunderstorm. I could not read him, nor his intentions and motivation. At tis he seed to care, other tis he was dismissive.
He was completely impenetrable.
And that fact stood even physically, he remained untouchable.
I just needed a single hit, just one. But hours had passed, and I had hit air tis than I’d scored baskets in my entire career and it didn’t seem like that would change.
"AGAIN," he said, voice as crisp and cold as it had been three hours ago.
I was panting. Stumbling. Barely standing.
But he stood there perfectly still, not a hair out of place.
"I can’t—" I gasped. The words scraped out of my throat.
"Then you’ll die." His voice. Still composed. Still cold.
Like I was nothing to him.
Sothing in snapped, maybe it was the frustration or sothing boiling over in due to the tension that never seed to dissipated between us. "FINE," I snarled, vision blurring with exhaustion and rage. "Maybe I WILL. Maybe I’m not—"
His hand shot out and he caught my wrist. He yanked forward before I could finish the thought.
Suddenly I was against him. Close enough to feel heat radiating off his body. Close enough to see the crimson ring around his irises.
His other hand gripped my shoulder. Holding steady.
Or holding captive.
I couldn’t tell which.
"Don’t." His voice was low. Rough. Right against my ear. "Don’t you DARE give up now."
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