Page 77 of Nemesis

I hold perfectly still the entire time his fingers pull at my scalp, terrified that one wrong move would cause the touch I’m starved for to disappear. The braids are familiar—two Dutch plaits that start at the front of my hairline and culminate down by my hips. The hair ties are new, and I’m loath to admit I like the pink touch. I’m pretty sure he used torn strips of fabric to tie off each braid in the cage. Those only turned pink after being stained with our own blood.

I assumed getting dressed would be the worst part, but that actually came later, when we walked through the grand halls and down the stone steps to the lower floor. I wasn’t really paying attention to my father the first night he led us through these halls, but I’m sure there weren’t this many people present. Vasiliy calls them soldiers—the numerous men who graze through the compound with dark clothes and stern expressions.

It’s like being in a military camp, except I’m an outsider wearing street clothes and usurping their space. A flush runs across my cheeks as we pass them, and I look down at my new shoes. I wonder if they know why I’m here. Who I’m supposed to be to their boss.

When Vasiliy finally comes to a stop, we’re dead-center in the massive courtyard, within perfect view of the house and the smaller building next to the gate that I can only assume is housing for the men. My arms tuck across my chest, and I squint to accommodate the bright sun.

“See? Not so bad,” he says with a smile.

I don’t comment.

The sharp scent of freshly cut grass burns my nostrils with every breath, so strong I can’t hold in my sneeze.

“Alright, let’s start with some breathing and stretching,” he says, stepping off the stone walkway onto the soggy grass and lowering down to sit.

“I’m pretty sure I don’t need lessons in either,” I mutter, even as I give in and collapse onto the dirt beside him. The ground’s dampness seeps into my pants, licking at my skin.

His head tilts thoughtfully. “I think there’s probably a lot of overlap between fighting and dancing.”

My feet pull together in a butterfly stretch, and I lower forward, trying not to glance over at the buildings for watchful eyes. The stretch already feels good in an old, familiar sort of way. After so many days of disuse, my limbs have never been stiffer.

“When you’re performing, do you time your breaths?” he suddenly asks, guiding himself into a deep lunge and indicating for me to do the same.

I nod, heaving my ass up to comply. “We’re not supposed to look like we’re breathing. It’s a particular smile, barely open enough to suck in air between our teeth without anyone noticing. I save the ugly breaths for the wings.”

I always hated that particular note. You look like you’re trying, Octavia, Irina used to drill into my head. You’re supposed to look effortless.

Vasiliy switches legs, and I mirror him.

“I see. Well, in fighting, breathing is a tool, not a thing to hide.”

How delightfully vague.

We spend another fifteen minutes moving into various active stretches under the hot sun. The silence out here is different from the silence in the room. Trees make so much more sound than we give them credit for. Creaking. Rustling. The occasional scurry. The world is far too active and vibrant.

I turn my attention to the man stretching out his bicep beside me, seeking the effective distraction. He’s dressed just like the soldiers, with a dark shirt that hugs his muscles and a pair of black cargo pants that hang down to his iron-toed boots. When did he have time to find a well-fitting pair of clothes? And where did he procure mine from?

I may look stupid, but Vasiliy looks anything but as he shakes out his arms like a fighter preparing for the ring. There seem to be two versions of him in my mind. There’s my Vasiliy, the one who held me on the floor of the cage for days on end and braids my hair with gentle hands. Then there’s the other Vasiliy. The one who hurts people for a living. The one who killed ruthlessly in the safehouse and tackled my cousin to the tarmac. I’ve only seen glimpses of that man directed toward me—the cold edge in his eyes when he thought I was a spy, and the force of air leaving my lungs beneath his shove.

Out here, those two sides of the coin seem to coexist in perfect harmony. His words may be soft, but they’re stern and definitive as he coaches me into a specific breathing pattern.

In for four. Hold for six. Out for eight.

Breathing aloud proves to be more difficult than I expected.

“I want to hear your breath leave your lips,” he says, demonstrating again with an exaggerated sound. “Use your chest to give it power.”

I try again, but my growing exasperation turns the exhale into more of a sigh.

“Better.”

Yeah, right.

“Let’s move on. We’ll start learning some baseline punches, utilizing all the breathwork we just did.”

He guides me into a fighting stance and then begins breaking down two punches in slow motion. I try to memorize his form and replicate it on myself, but the position requires a much lower center of gravity than I’m used to. He pulls one of my legs, spreading my feet wider apart. Then he lifts my fists to my chin.

“Shouldn’t I put on the gloves first?” I ask, worried about the exposed stitches still healing in my hand. The injury aches less by the day, but the remaining dark stitches that jut out of my pale fingers still look pretty gruesome.