Tatiana…
The alarm jolting me awake brings back a vivid memory of the night Lev hauled me out of bed and away from everything I’d known.
Covering my face, I swallow back the sobs trying to force their way out of my throat. No crying. Tears are weaponized against you at the Academy, I know that much from my brother’s horror stories.
Forcing myself from my warm blankets with a groan, I paw through the unpacked boxes until I find some leggings and a tank top. My first class is Combat Instruction and I’m going to need something I can run in. Preferably, run away.
Lev taught me some Krav Maga and basic defense moves when I was in my early teens, but my mother put her foot down when she heard about it, insisting that he stop. Apparently, it’s “unladylike” for a woman to know how to protect herself. I’ve tried working on what he taught me with the help of some YouTube videos, but I’m not fooling myself into believing I could take out the ancient gardener that I just passed who is laboring in the greenhouses, much less one of the savages enrolled here.
Still, it’s my first day. Surely, the professor would give me some time to catch up.
The building that houses all the classes dedicated to beatings and murder is the farthest from the main hall, the path winds through a series of limestone boulders and for a moment, I’m alone in the mounds and jagged shards of rock. The frigid wind tears through the gaps and I shudder, moving faster until the combat building is back in sight.
There’s a little shower of pebbles and dirt that just misses me, and a little scuff of a sound, like someone stepping down from a boulder.
Well, that’s creepy, I think, walking faster. Was there really someone up there? Watching me?
Just making it into the gym at 8:59 a.m., I smile a bit in relief.
“You’re late, Miss Aslanova.” The cold tone of Karl Zimmerman stops me mid-stride. The rest of the students are sitting in a circle, staring at me contemptuously.
“I’m sorry, Professor Zimmerman, but I thought class began at nine a.m.?” I look at my watch again, as if seeing the correct time is going to make a damn bit of difference. He’s out to Make An Example Of Me, I can tell.
“It’s ten after nine,” he lies, “and I do not tolerate the disrespect of being late to my class.”
Waving my hand awkwardly like I’m leading the Symphony of the Bullied, I try to apologize again. “My watch must be off,” I offer, though we both know it’s not, “I will make sure I’m early to your next class to show my respect.”
Apparently, my apology comes out wrong, because the beefy German’s expression hardens. He’s a giant; almost seven feet tall with close-cropped blonde hair and muscles bulging out alarmingly in every direction.
“You’re first on the mat today,” he says, looking over the other students, who are clearly enjoying this far too much.
“Oh, well, this is my first day and I haven’t had a chance to catch up with-”
Cutting me off, he snaps, “Get on the mat or get out.”
Dropping my backpack, I step into the center of the circle, rubbing my sweaty hands against my leggings. He’s just going to have one of these meatheads knock me off my feet to embarrass me, and…
“Miss Jankowski,” he says sharply, “join your opponent on the mat.”
Oh, crap… The girl he’s picked out is maybe six inches taller than me and better muscled than half the men in the class. She steps in front of me, rotating her shoulders to loosen up. She is completely expressionless, I can’t tell if she’s going to tear my head off or just push me down.
Clapping his hands, the professor shouts, “Begin.”
The next thing I see is a fist heading for me and I’m on the mat, staring up at the ceiling, and my face is on fire. It feels like she shattered my cheekbone. Rolling painfully to my side, I get up, darting at her and trying to land my elbow in her abdomen. She’s in a slight crouch, arms out and still looking completely indifferent as she dodges my pathetic attempt and then barrels toward me, kicking my legs out from under me with a strike to my right thigh.
I land face down this time, and my blood is dripping in a crimson stain on the blue mat. My thigh is screaming in agony. Gritting my teeth, I’m up again, surging toward this Polish machine of death like I have the slightest chance of getting out of this match alive. An explosion of pain under my chin sends me backward and as I hit the ground, everything goes black.
“Your skills are abysmal.”
Opening my eyes, I realize they’ve dragged me over to the side of the room and left me there with an ice pack on my face. There’s blood on the pack and when I wipe my eyes, my hand comes back smeared with more. My blood. I didn’t land a punch anywhere near Jankowski. I have never been in this much pain, even when I broke my arm in two places on our skiing vacation in St. Moritz. My left eye is already swelling shut and I’m pretty sure I bit my lip on that last punch because there’s blood running down my chin.
Everyone else is sparring in pairs, ignoring me as the professor crouches next to me. “You must practice,” Zimmerman says, “a great deal. We don’t slow down or hold back for weaklings. You must learn how to keep up.”
Chuckling even though this is not the slightest bit amusing, I nod. “My mother ended my Krav Maga lessons because they were unladylike.”
He shrugs, standing up. “Mr. Toscano, attend to me.”
A man almost as tall as Zimmerman halts his sparring and walks over, clearly unhappy to be selected. He ignores me, rubbing his hands together as he nods to the professor.
“I want you to train Miss Aslanova,” Zimmerman says, “she’s essentially useless. Bring her up to speed as quickly as possible.”
The guy is definitely unhappy with this plan. He’s beautiful in an almost unseemly way, with dark hair and pale golden-brown eyes, almost an amber color, which are currently settled contemptuously on me. I’m mesmerized by his tattoos. Blazing up his bare chest, cascading down his arms and up his neck, they’re all beautiful and vividly colored. “Sir… perhaps it would be better if you picked a female to-”
“You’re my best fighter in this class,” the professor cuts him off. “Work with her every day for a month.” Looking down at my pathetic, bloody self, Zimmerman adds, “We’ll take another look at your skills then. If you can’t pass muster, you’re out.”
“Of this class?” I ask hopefully.
Leaning down, he stares at me. “Out of the Academy.”
Putting the ice pack back on my face, I hope it hides my wet eyes. I have to stay here. There must be another way other than getting the living hell kicked out of me every day.
An alarmingly large, tattooed paw is shoved in my face. “Get up,” orders Toscano - I think that’s what Zimmerman called him.
Begrudgingly taking his hand, I stifle a yelp as he briskly hauls me off the floor and into his broad chest. Making an exasperated sound, he lifts me off of him.
“Sorry,” I mumble, “gravity is not on my side.”
“Come on,” he sighs, striding out the door and clearly assuming I’d be trotting after him, like an obedient Shetland pony.
Which I am.
“Where are we going?” I wheeze, trying to ignore the stabbing pains in my thigh and face.
“To the clinic to make sure there’s no serious damage,” he said, eating up the path with his long legs and forcing me to keep trotting, trying to keep up.
“Could you just- please slow down!” I said, grabbing his arm.
Looking down like I’d just infected him with typhoid or syphilis with my mere touch, he pulls loose. At least he had the common decency to shorten his stride a bit.
“So, I guess Jankowski is a ‘hate at first sight’ kind of girl, eh?” My feeble attempts at conversation were met with a slight flaring of his nostrils.