Page 37 of Vitaly

“I’m all set, thanks,” I say under my breath, my lips twisted dramatically in the most unflattering imitation of my enemy.

What is Nikita going to do when he realizes Vitaly is never going to tell me anything?

My lips relax as I consider it, but I push my mind elsewhere. It’s too soon to give up. If Nikita expected something last night, he’s delusional. Vitaly isn’t going to trust me just because he thinks I have information that could be useful, which he obviously doesn’t.

He needs time. He needsfinessing. He needs?—

My thoughts are abruptly cut off when I walk through the open doorway to the gym and see I’m not the first one here.

With only one row of lights to illuminate him, I stare at the muscles rippling in Vitaly’s back and shoulders as he knocks out pull-ups, ten before I stop counting. He doesn’t grunt as he does them. I didn’t even hear him from outside. The only thing that shows he’s a man instead of a machine is the sweat slicking his tattooed skin.

I noticed the tattoos before, but now… He must’ve sat for days to get all this done. Both his arms are fully covered, and ink runs over his shoulders and covers the majority of his back as well. It might look like a shirt if his shorts weren’t hanging low, showing the stark contrast of ink and clear skin at his waist.

Eventually—it could be a minute, it could be ten—Vitaly drops from the bar and turns, glancing at me before ripping a towel from the nearby rack and wiping sweat from his face. His lack of surprise makes me wonder if he knew I was standing here staring at him, my face heating at the possibility.

I clear my throat and walk over to the mats, keeping my eyes in front of me so I don’t look at him. I want to leave, but I’ll die before giving him the satisfaction.

“Good morning,” Vitaly says.

I ignore him.

“You’re up early.”

You’re up earlier.

I lay out a mat and face away from him while I start my warm-up routine, which is about ten minutes of yoga. I start with a deep breath—zero hope of it creating any sense of calm—then lift my hands above my head, pressing my palms together and elongating my neck toward the sky.

I can feel him staring.

My eyes open on impulse, and I realize my mistake of facing away from him. I catch his reflection in the mirror lining the wall and flinch as if he’s right behind me. He hasn’t moved from the pull up bar.

“Can I help you?” I snap.

He shakes his head from across the room. “Just resting between sets.”

I reposition myself and try not to see him, even in my mind. Closing my eyes once more, I shift into warrior one and breathe in deep, my ribs protesting the stretch. If he wasn’t here, I would stop. I would skip the stretch, baby the injury. Now that I’ve started, halting feels like surrender.

I catch movement in my periphery and dart my eyes to Vitaly’s reflection in the mirror. He’s gone back to doing pull ups, his abs and chest in view this time.

My lip curls in a sneer as I look away, but my traitorous eyes find their way back.

Thousands of years ago, my ancestors needed men like him to protect their young. My great, great times two thousand grandmother was holed up in a cave somewhere with a newbornbaby and needed to eat. She needed a person with a certain stature to be able to hunt, toprotect. It only made sense to choose a man like Vitaly, for natural selection to create a liking for certain traits.

So when my heart rate picks up as my eyes roam Vitaly’s carved muscles that glisten with sweat, it’s biology. It isn’t lust. It’s literally out of my control.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring when he finally drops from the bar, but I quickly move my eyes away and change positions. He wipes his face and chest with the towel before going to the rack of dumbbells, his back to me yet again. But the mirrors line the entire room. He can still see me if he chooses to look.

My pride nudges me, pushing me out of my pose and pointing my feet toward the drawer with a spare throwing knife. I have several positions left in my routine, but it would kill me if Vitaly left early thinking all I came in here to do was yoga.

He thinks little of me. Always has. And as much as I want to ignore it, blow it off, accept that I don’t need his approval outside of earning his trust to ultimately betray him, I can’t help but want to prove myself. Not just to him but to everyone. I feel it all the time. There’s a greatness inside me that claws to get out, but no one will let me open the door, or even a window, to show them.

I retrieve the blade and go to stand in my usual spot twenty feet away from the target.

While I’m in this spot, there’s always pressure. I crave success,needsuccess, and when I let myself down, I feel it with an intensity that threatens to bring me to my knees.

But closing my eyes, picturing the target, knife in my grasp, I’ve never felt so much at stake. As ridiculous as it sounds, I feel this even more than I felt the job I did collecting money from the Fun House. Even more than when it really mattered.

Nine years ago, the man in this room insisted I was trash. It doesn’t feel like I’m only proving my worth to him in this moment, it feels like I’m proving it to myself.

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