CHAPTER 80: ONE HIT

🌙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 times than I could count.

Ajax and Charlotte being at the scene of the crime most of the time.

Dmitri’s words stung so much because they were TRUE. He forced me 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 same time. 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 me back—it forced me 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 me forward while chaining me to the past. But if that chain could pull me 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 met 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 me.

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 assignment." He took slow, measured steps towards me, 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 movement, boots meant 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 improvement 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 me with that cold, analytical look that made me feel like a problem he was trying to solve.

"Today is about SPEED," he continued. "Reaction time. 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 me. Anywhere. Any method." His voice was calm. Clinical. "One hit, and you can rest."

I blinked. "One hit?"

"Yes."

"That’s it?"

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement? Challenge?—but it was gone before I could be sure.

"That’s it," he confirmed. "You have until sundown."

My stomach dropped.

Sundown.

Which meant he expected this to take HOURS.

Which meant 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 momentum, and released me so smoothly it looked choreographed. "Predictable," he said flatly.

Heat flooded my face.

I tried again being faster this time.

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 name.

Always Miss Brooks when he bothered to address me at all.

Never truly LOOKING at me—just analyzing, assessing, finding me wanting.

An hour passed.

Then two.

Then three.

My muscles screamed.

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 time. He seemed 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 times he seemed to care, other times 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 times 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.

Something in me snapped, maybe it was the frustration or something boiling over in me due to the tension that never seemed 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 me 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 me steady.

Or holding me captive.

I couldn’t tell which.

"Don’t." His voice was low. Rough. Right against my ear. "Don’t you DARE give up now."