I didn't sleep.
How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Marco's face. The blood. The casual way Dante had pulled the trigger like he was turning off a light switch.
By the time dawn crept through my windows, I'd given up trying. I showered, letting the hot water run until it turned cold, trying to wash away the memory of gunpowder and death.
It didn't work.
When I finally emerged from my room, wearing jeans and a simple black t-shirt from the wardrobe Rosa had stocked, I found her waiting in the hallway with a gentle smile and a knowing look.
"Rough night?" she asked.
"That's an understatement."
"Mr. Moretti requests your presence in the gym. He says it's time to begin your training."
"Training for what? How to watch people die?"
Rosa's expression turned serious. "Training to make sure you're not one of them, child. Come. Don't keep him waiting."
The gym was in the basement a massive space filled with equipment that looked more like a torture chamber than a workout room. Punching bags hung from the ceiling. Weights lined one wall. Mats covered the floor. And in the center of it all stood Dante.
He'd changed from last night's blood-stained clothes into black athletic pants and a fitted t-shirt that showed off every muscle in his sculpted body. His dark hair was slightly damp, like he'd already been working out, and when he turned to look at me, those grey eyes were as unreadable as ever.
"You look terrible," he observed.
"I didn't sleep. Funny how watching someone get executed will do that."
"You'll get used to it."
"I don't want to get used to it!" My voice rose despite my exhaustion. "I don't want to become numb to murder!"
"Then you'll suffer unnecessarily." He gestured for me to join him on the mats. "But that's your choice. Come here."
"What are we doing?"
"Teaching you to defend yourself." He moved with that predatory grace I was beginning to recognize. "The world I brought you into is dangerous, Isabella. My enemies would love to get their hands on you. Use you as leverage against me. Hurt you to hurt me. I can't protect you every second of every day, which means you need to learn how to protect yourself."
"I thought I couldn't leave the estate."
"You can't. But attacks can happen anywhere. Even here." He stopped directly in front of me. "Security can be breached.
Guards can be bribed or killed. If someone gets past my defenses, I need to know you can survive long enough for help to arrive."
The practicality of it made horrible sense. I was a weakness in his armor. A vulnerability that needed strengthening.
"What if I refuse to learn?"
"Then you'll die when someone inevitably tries to take you." He said it so matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather. "Your choice. Learn to fight or hope you're lucky. I prefer the former."
I stepped onto the mats. "Fine. Teach me."
"Good girl." The approval in his voice sent an unwanted thrill through me. "First lesson: awareness. Most people who get killed in my world die because they don't see the threat coming. They're distracted, careless, too trusting. You need to always be aware of your surroundings. Who's near you. Where the exits are. Anything that could be used as a weapon."
"Like you're doing right now?"
His lips quirked. "Exactly like I'm doing right now. I know there are three exits from this room. I know Rosa is in the kitchen directly above us. I know my guards are positioned at the south entrance and the security room. I'm aware of everything within a hundred-foot radius of where I'm standing."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's survival. And it becomes second nature." He circled me slowly, like a shark assessing prey. "Second lesson: you're smaller and weaker than any man who'll try to hurt you. That means you can't win a fair fight. So you don't fight fair. You go for the vulnerable spots eyes, throat, groin. You fight dirty and you don't stop until they're down or you can run."
"You want me to gouge out someone's eyes?"
"If it means surviving? Yes." He stopped behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Turn around and try to hit me."
I turned, confused. "What?"
"Hit me. Try to punch me in the face."
"I'm not going to"
"Do it, Isabella. Or are you too scared?"
The challenge in his voice sparked something angry in me. I swung at him, putting all my frustration and fear and rage into the punch.
He caught my fist effortlessly, his hand wrapping around mine like a vice.
"Terrible form. Weak follow-through.
Telegraphed your intention a mile away." He released me. "Again. And this time, don't wind up. Strike fast and mean it."
I tried again. And again. And again. Each time, he either blocked or caught my hand, critiquing every mistake with brutal honesty.
By the tenth attempt, I was sweating and furious and desperate to actually land a hit.
"You're overthinking," Dante said, not even breathing hard while I was panting. "Fighting isn't about technique when you're desperate. It's about rage. About survival instinct. You need to tap into that primal part of yourself that wants to live."
"I don't have a primal part!"
"Yes, you do. Everyone does." He moved closer, invading my space until his chest nearly touched mine. "Close your eyes."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
I closed my eyes, hyper-aware of his proximity. His breath on my face. The scent of his cologne mixed with clean sweat.
"Now," his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "imagine I'm not me. I'm one of the men who grabbed you at the diner. I'm dragging you somewhere dark. Somewhere no one will hear you scream. I'm going to hurt you, Isabella. I'm going to"
I struck without thinking. My hand shot out, palm aimed at his nose like he'd taught me.
He blocked it, but barely. His eyes lit with satisfaction.
"There it is. That's what you need. That rage.
That refusal to be a victim." He caught my wrist gently this time. "You felt the difference, didn't you? When you stopped thinking and just reacted?"
I had. For a split second, I'd been pure instinct. Pure survival.
"Again," Dante commanded. "This time, I won't tell you when I'm coming. Defend yourself."
What followed was the most intense hour of my life. He came at me from different angles, testing my reflexes, pushing me past exhaustion into something feral and desperate. Sometimes he moved slowly, letting me practice technique. Other times he moved at full speed, forcing me to react on pure instinct.
I failed more often than I succeeded. But occasionally just occasionally I managed to land a hit or break his grip, and the satisfaction in his eyes made the bruises forming on my arms worth it.