Page 1 of Deadly Legacy
Chapter 1
Pain bloomed across Reuben’s cheek as his back slammed against the training mat. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but he rolled to his feet, muscles remembering rather than thinking.
“You telegraph your moves with your eyes.” Stepan circled him, broad shoulders relaxed, barely winded despite two hours of training. “Again.”
Reuben sucked in a breath, tasting metal. Eight months of this, and Stepan still made him feel like he’d learned nothing. Yet the bruises mapping his body told a different story.
Reuben wiped sweat from his forehead, while the leather and disinfectant smell of the gym filled his nostrils. His body ached in places he’d never known existed before. Still, every bruise was a badge of honor as to how much progress he’d made.
“You’re thinking too much.” Stepan’s slight Russian accent thickened with irritation. “Your opponent won’t give you time to consider your options.”
A memory flashed; Andrey’s gun pressed against his head, the cold metal imprinting fear into his skin, the utter helplessness as he’d stood there, useless, waiting for someone else to save him.
Reuben’s jaw tightened.Never again.
He lunged forward, feinting left before executing the takedown, his shoulder connecting with Stepan’s midsection. For a heartbeat, he felt the larger man’s balance shift.
Then the world spun, and Reuben’s back hit the mat again.
But this time, Stepan’s ever-present stern expression softened. “Better.”
However, the word barely registered through the ringing in Reuben’s ears. He blinked, the gym ceiling swimming into focus as he lay flat on his back on the training mat.
“Now get up.” Stepan loomed over him, disappointment already beginning to etch back into the lines around his eyes. “Your opponent won’t wait for you to recover.”
Reuben rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his knees. His ribs protested, a dull throb where Stepan’s last strike had landed. He rose to his feet, unsteady but determined.
“Now, what did you do wrong?” Stepan asked, circling him like a wolf assessing wounded prey.
Reuben wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I dropped my guard.”
“And?”
“I moved backward instead of to the side.” The mistake was obvious now.
Stepan nodded once. “Again.”
Eight months ago, Reuben would have asked for a break. Would have needed one. However, his body had changed since then, hardened by constant training. His mind had changed, too.
He studied Stepan’s stance, searching for tells. The former Spetsnaz special forces soldier turned head of security for Nikon’s operations was a mountain of a man at six foot three inches tall, with scars drawing stories of violence across his hands and forearms.
When Nikon had assigned Stepan to train Reuben after the Andrey incident, their relationship had evolved from stoic protector and reluctant charge to something resembling mentor and student. Although Stepan’s methods remained brutally effective rather than gentle.
He settled into his stance, fists raised, eyes locked on Stepan’s. This time, when the attack came, Reuben was ready.
His body moved on instinct, side-stepping Stepan’s lunge, catching the larger man’s arm, using the momentum to execute the takedown they’d been drilling for weeks.
And for one glorious moment, Stepan was airborne. The impact when he hit the mat reverberated through the gym.
Stepan lay still for a heartbeat, then his face shifted. A momentary break in his impassive mask. It was not quite approval but the absence of criticism, which from Stepan was practically a standing ovation.
“Water break. Two minutes.”
Grabbing his towel, Reuben dragged it across his sweat-drenched face. His legs almost buckled as he made his way to the water cooler, where he gulped down the cool liquid that offered blessed relief to his burning throat.
The private gym in the Matvei compound had become as familiar to him as his old university library once was. Boxing equipment lined one wall, weights another. Security cameras monitored every angle—a necessary precaution in Nikon’s world.
Reuben caught his reflection in the mirrored wall. The academic poker player from two years ago—soft around the edges, almost easy to dismiss—had vanished. The man staring back had sharper angles and hardened muscle where there had once been softness. There were bruises in various stages of healing mapping their way across his torso and arms (purple fading to green fading to yellow), a living record of the personal cage fighting lessons he’d been getting from Stepan.
