I do, with my left hand. The grip still feels wrong, but less wrong than it used to.
He circles me once, then stops behind me. “You don’t win knife fights with strength. You win by staying on your feet.”
I tighten my grip.
He moves fast. His arm hooks around my waist, knife pressing lightly to my ribs.
“Dead,” he says.
I elbow him, spin, and try to slash. He dodges and catches my wrist mid swing. His grip is firm but not punishing.
“Don’t hold back,” I snap, breathing hard.
“I’m not,” he says. “But I’m not breaking your other wrist just so you can feel tough.”
“I want to feel ready.”
His gaze locks onto mine. Calculating, like he is weighing whether I can take what I am asking for.
“You sure?”
“Stop asking,” I say. “Make me fight for it.”
He lunges.
I dodge this time, barely. I get a slice across his forearm. He grabs my shoulder, twists me, pins me against the padded wall.
“Knives are personal,” he mutters near my ear. “You want to survive a close fight? You’ve got to be meaner than the fuck trying to kill you.”
“I am,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
“Then prove it.”
I shove backward, dropping my weight, catching his knee just enough to throw off his stance. I turn fast, blade up, my chest heaving.
His eyes flare for a second.
“Good,” he says.
I stand there, knife in hand, my heart pounding.
“Again.”
Sweat rolls down my temple as I slam my forearm against Seth’s wrist, twisting the knife from his grip.
He steps back before I can finish the motion.
“Again,” I say, my breath ragged. The right side of my body feels half dead, but I need this.
“You’re still favoring your right,” Seth points out. “Stop doing that. It’ll get you killed.”
I lunge again. This time he lets me get the blade, but as soon as I have it, he knocks me flat with a shoulder to the chest.
“Fuck,” I hiss, staring up at the ceiling.
Seth crouches beside me. “You’re moving better,” he murmurs.
I push myself up. “Again.”
