Page 38 of Vitaly

Sweat beads on my forehead despite having done nothing. My heart races as if I’ve run a 10k.

I inhale a deep breath, bring my right foot back, rearing the knife. When I propel it forward, my yell follows it. I’m bent over, staring with wide eyes at the tip of the blade dead center of the bullseye.

I did it.

I did it.

I look in the mirror for Vitaly, unable to help myself from seeking his reaction, and when I see him with his back still to me, curling a dumbbell, I stop breathing. It feels like the air was knocked from my lungs, even though I know he couldn’t possibly have hit me from across the room.

Disappointment. Sad,patheticdisappointment sits like a heavy weight on my chest while I just stand staring at the target.

I’ve hit a bullseye two other times. I’ve thrown the blade maybe a thousand.

It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid, but I feel a thickness in my throat that comes from sadness I don’t normally allow myself to feel.

What is it about this man that makes me so pitiful? It’s like I’m being transported back to my twelve-year-old self’s body.

Chomping down on my molars, I stride to the blade, jerk it out, and go back to my position. I throw it five more times, blocking out Vitaly the best that I can, and by the fourth throw, I actually succeed in ignoring him. It isn’t until I’m about to throw it a sixth time that I catch him in the mirror, standing right behind me.

This time, I don’t flinch.

“Something I can help you with,sir?”

His reflection smiles at me like he finds me amusing orcute. I could kill him.

“I was just wondering how you do that.” He points to the target and nods that way as if I need the extra help figuring out what he’s referring to. “Make the knife stick every time, I mean. It’s impressive.”

I move my eyes to the target, knife wielded, and pretend to ignore him. A pleasant warmth spreads in my shoulder and up my neck until it fills my ears.

I rear back and throw the knife with a roar, landing it a few inches right of the bullseye.

“Practice,” I reply with every bit of the pride that I feel.

“Hmm.” I catch Vitaly watching me in the mirror, his head tilted while I go to retrieve the blade. “It’s a neat trick.”

That falters my steps. My foot catches on the floor, and I pause for half a second before continuing.

A neat trick.

Trick.

Trick.

I rip the knife from the target and walk back to my post with a swing to my shoulders. Except I don’t stop at my post. I continue to Vitaly, the knife burning my palm with the intensity to release it right into his heart—which would be such a fitting death for him.

I stop only a few inches away, the smell of his sweat invading my senses. It isn’t unpleasant, and I hate that.

“Do you remember when you saw me the other night in Naked City? I was doing ajob, like a soldier would. Which is the same title you have, by the way. And in case you didn’t notice, I fought off several of those goons with strength, stamina, and agility I built in this gym. My ability to throw a knife is not atrick.It’s a skill, and a deadly one, useful not only to me but to the Bratva.”

He nods, but the blank look on his face makes it clear he’s unconvinced. If he watched a man do what I do, he would see a killer. But me? Oh, I’m just a girl.

Anger bubbles my blood to the point I shudder with it, my jaw clamping down so tight, my teeth protest. The knife clangs onto the hard floor when I drop it, and Vitaly’s eyes are there while I raise my fists, planting one foot back to get into a fighting stance.

His brows shoot up. “You can’t be serious.”

“Humor me.”

He blinks, a startled laugh skittering from his mouth. “Mila, you’rewounded. You shouldn’t even be in here. You should be resting. And your face…” He gestures to my cheek. Last night, I covered the bruise with makeup so he wouldn’t ask, but now I couldn’t give a shit what he thinks about it. “You look like a ragdoll as it is. Does Nikitasparwith?—”

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