Page 64 of Bratva Prisoner
“Like this?” I attempt the move again, this time managing to surprise him enough that he actually has to work to counter my attack.
“Exactly like that. You’re a natural at this.”
“I have good motivation to learn.”
“Which is?”
“Staying alive in your world.”
The reminder of why I need these skills brings a shadow across his face, but he doesn’t argue with my logic.
“Again,” he instructs. “This time, don’t think about what you’re doing. Just react.”
We continue practicing defensive techniques, moving from basic blocks to more complex maneuvers that require us to grapple. Each time he pins me or I manage to escape his hold, the physical contact sends electricity through my entire body.
“You’re getting distracted,” he observes after I fail to execute a simple counter-move.
“I’m concentrating.”
“No, you’re thinking about something else entirely.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize how transparent I’ve become. The way he looks at me—like he knows exactly what’s going through my mind—makes my pulse race.
“Focus, Alyssa. In a real fight, distraction gets you killed.”
“Right. Focus.”
But focusing becomes increasingly difficult as our training sessions continue over the next few days. Learning to fight with someone requires a level of physical closeness that makes it impossible to ignore the attraction simmering between us. When he adjusts my stance, his hands linger on my hips. When I successfully pin him during grappling practice, the moment stretches longer than necessary before he breaks free.
“I think you’re ready for the next phase,” he announces after a particularly successful session.
“Which is?”
“Weapons training.”
The words chill me to the core. Images of Troy pointing that gun at my chest flash through my mind, bringing back all the fear and helplessness I felt in that moment.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” I admit.
“You need to be comfortable with firearms if you’re going to be part of this life. Not just comfortable—competent.”
“What if I freeze up? What if I can’t handle it?”
Maksim moves closer and brings his hands up to frame my face. “Then we’ll work through it together until you can. But I think you’re stronger than you realize.”
The confidence in his voice gives me the courage I need to nod my agreement.
The private shooting range in the basement of Ravenshollow is more extensive than I expected, complete with targets at various distances and enough firepower to outfit a small army. Maksim selects a pistol from the collection and checks it before handing it to me.
“It’s not loaded,” he assures me as I accept the weapon with a grimace. “We’ll start with just getting you comfortable holding it.”
The weight of the gun feels wrong in my palm; it’s too heavy and too light at the same time. My hands shake despite my efforts to remain calm, and the memory of Troy’s weapon pointed at my chest makes my stomach roil.
“Breathe,” Maksim instructs. “It’s just a tool, like any other. It only has power if you give it power.”
“Troy made it seem like it had all the power in the world.”
“Troy was a coward who used weapons to intimidate people weaker than himself. That’s not what we’re doing here.”
