The courtyard's stones still glistened with dew, though the morning sun had burned away the mist. Lottie stood at the center, shoulders squared, though her heart pounded hard enough she was sure Marco could hear it.
Around her, Gabe's men watched with quiet interest, some leaning on rifles, others murmuring low. They had seen her lift a gun in the chaos, seen her pull the trigger. But this was different. Here, in daylight, there were no shadows to blur her resolve.
Marco tossed a wooden practice knife at her feet.
"Pick it up."
She crouched, the weapon rough and unfamiliar in her hands. It was too light, too blunt, yet somehow heavier than steel.
Marco circled her slowly, like a predator measuring prey. His eyes missed nothing—the way her grip shifted, the way her stance faltered, the flicker of doubt in her gaze.
"First lesson," he said. "Hesitation gets you killed. Out there, last night, you didn't hesitate. You pulled the trigger. But this?" He tapped the blade she held. "This requires more than instinct. It requires intent."
Lottie swallowed hard. "And if I don't have it?"
"Then you learn it. Or Vitale learns you."
The words sliced sharper than any knife. She tightened her grip.
Marco lunged without warning.
Her breath caught—too slow, too startled. His blade tapped against her side, a quick, merciless reminder of how easily she could fall. The men watching chuckled under their breath, though it wasn't cruel. It was the laugh of soldiers who had seen this before, who knew how green she was.
"Again," Marco barked.
She adjusted her stance, fists clammy, legs stiff. He moved fast—faster than her eyes could track. His blade met her shoulder, the dull thud a warning.
"Again."
The third strike was a blur, the fourth sharper, the fifth hard enough to sting as wood cracked against her ribs. Each time she staggered, each time she bit down on pain, each time she felt frustration coil tighter in her gut.
Gabe stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms folded, his gaze unreadable. He hadn't said a word since she'd stepped forward. His silence cut deeper than Marco's strikes.
By the seventh blow, her chest was heaving, her arms trembling. Sweat clung to her hairline.
Marco lowered his blade, voice sharp but not unkind. "You fight with fear. Fear clouds your grip. It makes your strikes weak, your guard thin. You'll last seconds like this."
Lottie straightened, her throat dry, her pride raw. "Then show me how not to."
Marco's lips twitched, almost a smile. He tossed the knife aside and squared his stance. "Lesson two, then. You don't wait. You don't defend. You attack."
This time when he lunged, she met him—not perfectly, not gracefully, but with a spark of defiance. The wood clattered against his arm, barely a tap, but it was something.
The watching men stilled.
Marco's smile sharpened. "Better."
⸻
By midday, her body screamed with bruises, her palms raw, her breath a rasp. Marco finally called a halt, dismissing the men, who wandered off with a mix of respect and curiosity in their eyes.
"You've got fire," Marco said as he gathered the discarded blades. "But fire alone won't save you. It'll burn you out fast if you don't learn control. Come back tomorrow."
Lottie nodded, too drained to speak.
When the courtyard emptied, Gabe moved toward her at last. He didn't speak. He simply pulled the knife from her hand, examined her red knuckles, then took her wrist in his grip. His touch was careful, steady, but his eyes were dark with something heavier than anger.
"You think this is what I want for you?" he asked, voice low.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. "It doesn't matter what you want. This is what I need."
His jaw tightened. "Need? Or punishment?"
The question cut through her like glass. She had thought about it—whether stepping into Marco's circle was strength or penance for the life she'd taken. But the answer came clearer than she expected.
"Both," she whispered.
For a moment, he said nothing, his silence heavy as stone. Then he tugged her closer, his forehead lowering to hers, his breath warm against her skin.
"Damn you," he muttered, though the words cracked, softer than rage. "Damn you for making me watch you bleed."
Her lips parted, her heart racing in the fragile space between them. "Then teach me yourself. If you can't stand it, if you don't trust anyone else—then you."
The quiet stretched. His grip on her wrist tightened, then loosened, his hand sliding down to lace with hers.
"You don't know what you're asking," he said.
"Maybe not," she admitted. "But I know I can't go back. Not after last night. I can't be the girl hiding behind walls anymore."
Something broke in his expression then—not surrender, but acceptance. The kind born of knowing he could no longer cage her without breaking her completely.
"All right," he said finally, his voice rough. "But if I train you, Lottie, there's no turning back. You'll see every part of me I've kept locked away. You'll hate some of it."
Her fingers tightened around his. "Then let me decide if I hate it."
⸻
That night, the estate was quieter, the fires from the battle long burned out. But inside the training hall, the silence was filled with the sharp sound of wood striking wood, of footsteps scuffing against stone, of labored breathing.
Gabe didn't go easy on her. He never would. His movements were precise, merciless, every strike a reminder of what she would face if Vitale's men came again.
But he wasn't Marco. Where Marco barked and struck, Gabe corrected. He adjusted her stance with a hand at her hip, steadied her grip with fingers sliding over hers, forced her gaze to hold his when she faltered.
"Again," he ordered, stepping back, circling her.
Her arms ached, her legs trembled, but she swung, clumsy but determined. The wooden knife grazed his arm.
"Not bad," he said. "But you're pulling your strikes. You still want to be merciful."
She met his eyes, breath ragged. "And you don't?"
The question stilled him. For a moment, the cold mask slipped, and she saw it—the man who once wanted mercy, before the world stripped it away.
"No," he said finally, voice like gravel. "Not anymore."
She lowered her blade, chest heaving. "Then let me carry what you can't."
The words lingered in the air, raw, unshaken. Something flickered in his expression—pain, desire, something darker—and before either could speak again, he stepped forward, catching her chin in his hand.
"You're going to ruin me," he whispered.
Her blade clattered to the floor as his mouth found hers. The kiss was rough, unrestrained, the kind that stripped away all the pretense of control. She fisted his shirt, pulling him closer, letting the weight of exhaustion and fire and need collapse into him.
When they broke apart, breathless, his forehead rested against hers.
"Tomorrow," he said. "We train again. Harder."
She nodded, lips still tingling, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Then tomorrow, I don't pull back."
He gave a sharp, almost feral smile. "Good."
⸻
Outside, the night stretched quiet over the estate. But in the shadows beyond the walls, unseen eyes watched, and Vitale's men whispered.
The girl was learning.
And Vitale did not fear her less for it. He feared her more.