“You're slowing down, old man.”
Dom's voice cut through the rhythm, and I couldn't help the slight twitch at the corner of my mouth. Didn't break stride, though. Didn't acknowledge him. Just kept moving, kept breathing, kept my focus on the heavy bag swaying in front of me like a pendulum counting down to something inevitable.
“I heard you the first time,” I said, accent thick around the consonants. “Also heard you trip over your own feet coming through the door.”
“That was tactical repositioning.”
“That was you being clumsy British bastard.”
He circled me like a wolf testing prey, but there was a grin splitting his face wide open. The kind he always wore when he thought he was being clever. We'd worked together for five years. Bled together. Killed together. Gotten drunk exactly twice and never spoke of it again. He was the closest thing I had to a brother, which meant I knew exactly how to hurt him if he pushed too hard.
It also meant I knew how to make him laugh when everything else went to shit.
“I'm graceful as a fucking gazelle,” Dom said, still circling. “You're just jealous.”
“Gazelles do not smell like cheap cologne and poor decisions.”
“This cologne is expensive, thank you very much. Some of us care about personal grooming.”
I stopped mid-strike, letting my fist hover inches from the bag. Turned to face him with one eyebrow raised. “Is that why you use more hair product than Noah?”
“Noah doesn't use hair product, he's naturally gorgeous. Unlike some of us who look like we crawled out of a Serbian war zone.”
“I did crawl out of Serbian war zone.”
“My point exactly.” Dom's grin sharpened. “Now are we going to talk about our feelings, or are you going to let me hit you?”
“You could try.”
“Oh, I will.” He was closer now, just outside my peripheral vision. Testing boundaries. Waiting for me to react. “Question is whether you're still fast enough to stop me.”
I turned fully to face him, and that's when he moved.
Fast. Trained. He came in low, aiming for my ribs, and I shifted my weight just in time. Caught his wrist mid-swing. Our eyes met for a split second, his blue ones bright with challenge, and then I used his momentum against him. One smooth pivot. One sharp pull.
He twisted mid-fall, refusing to go down easy. Typical. His free hand shot out and grabbed my shoulder, taking me with him. We hit the mat together, hard enough to knock the air from both our lungs. I landed on top, forearm pressed across his chest, my knee between his legs for leverage.
Dom was already laughing even as he gasped for air. Blood trickled from his split lip, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, still grinning like an idiot who'd just proven his point.
“Christ, Viktor. You could at least pretend to break a sweat.”
“Why?” I could feel his heartbeat against my forearm. Rapid. Alive. His chest rose and fell beneath me, and I realized how close we were. How easy it would be to apply just a little more pressure. How vulnerable he'd made himself by pulling me down.
Trust. That's what this was.
“Because normal people do. When they fight. When they feel things.” He pushed up on his elbows, studying me with those sharp blue eyes that saw too much, dug too deep, refused to let me hide behind the walls I'd built so carefully. “You know. Human shit.”
I should have moved. Should have gotten up. Instead, I pressed down harder, testing his defense. “You want me to feel things? I feel you about to tap out.”
“Bold words from a man whose knee is in a very delicate position.” But he didn't tap. Didn't yield. Just held my gaze with that infuriating smirk. “I could end your bloodline from here.”
“You would have to catch me off guard first.”
“Pretty sure I'm the one on bottom, mate.”
“And yet you are still talking instead of fighting your way out.” I leaned in closer, lowering my voice. “This is your problem. Too much mouth. Not enough action.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Challenge accepted.
