“Don’t drop your hips.”
I fixed it.
Fifty.
My elbows felt as if they were full of glass. My breath became hot and ragged. Sweat slid down my spine.
“You’re lagging,” he said, not accusing, just observing as if he were watching the weather.
Fifty-five.
My wrists trembled. The mat blurred.
“Again,” he muttered when I hit sixty and collapsed onto my knees.
I stared up at him, chest heaving.
Ben’s expression didn’t change. “You should be better than this. When the shit hits the fan, you don’t get time to catch your breath.”
There it was. Not a punishment. A lesson. Everything with Ben was a lesson.
I forced myself down.
One.
I wasn’t sure if he did this because he believed it would strengthen me or because he didn’t know any other way to survive in a world where control was the only thing that kept you safe.
Both could be true.
Bothweretrue.
By the time I hit thirty, my arms were jelly, and my teeth were clenched so hard my jaw ached.
I tasted copper.
He crouched, not close enough to touch me. Ben rarely touched me. When he did, it was a correction—an adjustment of my stance, a shove of my shoulder into alignment, a grip on my wrist when my form slipped, and he decided pain would teach faster than words.
He didn’t need to hit. He had other weapons at his disposal.
“Look at me,” he narrowed his eyes.
I lifted my head.
His eyes were flat, the color of storm clouds. “Why are we doing this?”
I swallowed. My throat hurt.Everythinghurt.
“So I can protect myself,” I whispered, my voice shaky.
“What else?” His tone sharpened by a fraction.
My arms quivered. Sweat dripped from my chin onto the mat. My mind jumbled from exhaustion, and I couldn’t think.
“So you can perform under pressure.” He looked at me with disappointment for not responding. “You lead a comfortable life,” he continued. “Comfort is alie. It gives you the impression that the world is gentle. But it’s not.”
I looked away.
“Eyes up,” he snapped.
