"Yes," Camille said as the elevator reached the garage. "Physical. Mental. I'm going to teach you how to fight. Because next time... next time I might not be there to catch the cane."
The garage was a silent, subterranean cathedral of concrete and exhaust fumes. The matte black Porsche waited like a sleeping predator under the harsh fluorescent lights. Yanna leaned against the cool metal of the elevator door, the leather of her custom bodysuit squeaking with every breath. She felt the heavy steel collar resting on her collarbones, the cold T-bar piercing throbbing between her legs, and the profound, bone-deep exhaustion of a woman who had been dragged through hell and told it was heaven.
"Fight?" Yanna repeated, the word tasting strange on her tongue. "I... I'm a scholar, Ma'am. I read books. I don't... I don't fight."
Camille laughed. It was a dark, brittle sound that bounced off the concrete walls. She unlocked the car with a sharp chirp.
