Morning broke harsh and unkind.
The first thing Lottie felt was pain. A dull, pulsing ache threaded through her arms and ribs, her muscles protesting every shift against the mattress. She groaned softly, rolling to her side, blinking against the thin stripes of sunlight that slipped through the shutters.
The second thing she felt was warmth.
Gabe sat in the chair by her bed, his posture sharp despite the hour, a book balanced in his hand though his eyes weren't on the page. He looked like he hadn't moved all night, his broad frame tense, the shadows under his eyes betraying that he hadn't slept.
Her breath caught. "You stayed."
His gaze flicked to her, hard at first, then softening in the quiet way only he allowed. "You were thrashing in your sleep."
She shifted, wincing as her sore muscles flared. "Guess Marco wasn't exaggerating about bruises being part of the process."
"You call that process?" His voice was low, edged with bitterness. "It's punishment. You're not built for this, Lottie. Not yet."
She bristled, pushing herself upright despite the sting in her ribs. "That's why I'm training. To be built for it. To be ready."
His jaw worked as though grinding back a thousand arguments. Finally, he shut the book with a sharp snap. "You think being ready means picking up a blade or a gun and surviving a day? No. Being ready means being willing to bleed, to lose parts of yourself you'll never get back."
Her throat tightened, but she didn't flinch. "And you think I haven't already?"
The silence that followed was heavy. She hadn't meant for the words to sound so raw, but they lingered between them, undeniable.
He leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on hers. "If you keep going, there's no turning back. You won't just be the woman I'm trying to protect. You'll be part of this war. Vitale will see you as more than leverage. He'll see you as a threat. And threats don't get mercy."
Her voice shook, but her resolve didn't. "Then let him."
Something shifted in his expression—anger, pride, fear, all tangled into one. He rose, pacing the edge of the room, restless energy spilling off him like sparks.
"You drive me insane," he muttered.
Lottie allowed herself the faintest smile despite the weight pressing on her chest. "Good. Then we're even."
⸻
Later, the training resumed.
The courtyard was quieter than yesterday, the men busy with repairs on the southern wall. Marco stood at the perimeter, arms crossed, watching as Gabe put Lottie through her paces.
No wooden blades this time. Gabe had handed her a heavier weapon, dull but steel, its balance strange in her hand.
"Too heavy?" he asked, his tone unreadable.
She shook her head, though her arms quivered slightly under the weight. "No."
"Good. Get used to it. Steel doesn't forgive weak wrists."
The lesson was brutal. Gabe pushed her harder than Marco had, each strike faster, each block sharper. He didn't hold back, his blade coming at her from angles she couldn't predict. She stumbled, missed, caught blows that rattled her bones.
But she never quit.
By the tenth exchange, sweat stung her eyes, her breath came ragged, but she caught his strike with the flat of her blade, pushing back with a grunt. For a moment, she saw a flicker of approval in his eyes.
"Better," he said. "But your stance—too open. Again."
They moved in a relentless rhythm, steel clashing, boots scraping stone. She lost count of the hours until her body felt like fire and her will alone kept her upright.
When at last he disarmed her with a twist that sent the blade spinning across the courtyard, he didn't follow with criticism. Instead, he reached out, steadying her as she swayed.
"You didn't fall," he murmured.
She looked up at him, exhausted, her chest heaving. "Not yet."
The corner of his mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile. "That's the fire. Hold onto it."
Marco stepped forward then, clearing his throat. "She's learning faster than I expected."
Gabe shot him a warning look, but Marco continued. "It won't matter if Vitale strikes before she's ready. We should—"
"Enough," Gabe cut him off, his tone sharp. "She'll be ready."
Lottie felt the weight of the promise, heavier than the blade in her hand.
⸻
Far beyond the estate walls, in a dimly lit warehouse, Vitale poured himself a glass of wine.
The reports from his men were scattered on the table: a failed breach, heavy losses, and—most concerning—a note scribbled in haste.
The girl fights.
Vitale sipped slowly, savoring the bitterness. His men shifted nervously at the edge of the room, waiting for his verdict.
"So," he said at last, his voice smooth as silk. "The pretty little pawn has teeth."
One of his lieutenants cleared his throat. "She shot the tire herself, boss. Took down the truck. Some of the men swear she killed one of ours."
Vitale chuckled, low and cold. "Then she's no longer just bait. She's becoming a blade."
He swirled the wine, his gaze fixed on the crimson liquid. "Gabe thinks training her will save her. He doesn't realize it's sealing her fate."
He leaned back, lips curling into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "A girl with fire makes the sweetest ashes."
⸻
Night settled heavy over the estate.
Lottie sat on the balcony outside her room, a blanket draped over her shoulders, staring at the stars she could barely see past the city's glow. Her body hurt, her hands trembled, but her mind burned.
Every bruise was proof. Proof that she could stand. Proof that she wasn't fragile glass meant only to be protected.
She didn't hear Gabe approach until he set a glass of water on the railing beside her.
"You should rest," he said.
She smiled faintly. "That's all anyone keeps telling me. Funny—I thought rest doesn't win wars."
He sighed, leaning against the railing, his profile carved in shadow. "Wars don't get won by burning yourself out before the battle begins."
She looked at him, her heart tightening at the weight in his eyes. "You don't want me to fight. You want to keep me safe. But that's not who I am anymore, Gabe. You know it."
His silence was answer enough.
After a long moment, he said quietly, "When I look at you, I see the one thing I never wanted to lose. And the thought of you standing in front of Vitale's men—it kills me before it happens."
Her throat ached, but she reached for his hand, curling her fingers into his. "Then don't let me fight alone. Teach me. Stand with me. That's all I ask."
He looked at her then, the mask slipping, and for once she saw not the soldier, not the leader, but the man. Tired. Afraid. Fierce with love he didn't know how to voice.
And for the first time, he didn't argue.
He simply pulled her into his arms, holding her close as the night stretched around them, silent and heavy with the promise of the fire still to come.