“I just think,” he says, carefully, looking back at Niko, “if we’re teaching, we should account for real-world pressure. Sir.”
‘Sir’ for Niko. Not for me. Interesting. “Oh, I agree,” I say. “Real pressure is important.” I step off the mat rolling my shoulders, feeling my joints loosen with familiar anticipation. “Come. Show me,” I say, gesturing with my chin to the mat. “We’ll take it at your speed.”
Niko shoots me a look. The one that means ‘don’t,’ but I ignore him. A murmur runs through the watching crowd, and someone mutters something in Russian that roughly translates to “this’ll be good.” One of the Brits elbows the other guy next to him, smirking. Of course they want to see the foreign freak and their quiet golden boy go at it.
Humans are simple.
For a second, Caiden stands there, and you can almost see the calculations spinning behind his eyes — pride, protocol, and humiliation-risk assessment. I’ve seen that look on men twice his size with twice his rank. It almost always ends the same way.
“Alright,” he says, stepping forward, his voice is steady. “If you insist, Sergeant.”
Oh, excellent.
He steps onto the mat opposite me. We circle, and Niko exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s suddenly aged five years. I flash him my most innocent expression, and he flips me off without moving his hand. Love you too, solnyshko.
“Rules?” Caiden asks, eyes still on mine.
“Don’t die,” I say, tilting my head. “Try to learn something. Beyond that... we’ll see.” A ripple of uneasy laughter comes from the onlookers, and we square up. I’m notgenerous enough to give him the first move, but I’m not cruel enough to ambush him either. I lift my hands, and I wait.
He comes in cautiously, his hands up, testing distance. He goes for my shoulder, and I parry it easily, redirecting his wrist with an open palm. He recovers fast without fumbling. He’s also watching my eyes, not my chest.
Rookie mistake.
“You’re tense,” I say lightly as we circle. “Do I scare you, detka?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant,” he says through his teeth. He tries for a leg sweep. It’s not bad, but I hop over it, letting my heel clip his calf on the way down, which is enough to make him stumble. The crowd chuckles, and the anger flares in his face.
“Again,” I say. He comes in faster this time with combinations and a jab at my ribs. Then, an attempt to hook my ankle, suggesting he’s thinking three moves ahead.
He’s not predictable. I like that. Irritatingly.
We trade positions, and for a few seconds, it honestly could go either way. He gets fingers on my sleeve, pulls, and tries to leverage my momentum. I roll with it, dropping down to a knee by choice, letting him think he’s got something, then I twist.
In a heartbeat, I’m behind him with my forearm braced across his chest, and his balance is compromised. I don’t lock it fully yet. But I let him feel how easily I could. “Mind your centre,” I murmur in his ear. “You’re giving it away for free.”
“Maybe I just trust you not to drop me on my arse in front of my CO,” he grinds out, wriggling to get loose.
“Oh, detka,” I say softly for his ears alone, “that’s your second mistake today.”
I release him and shove him lightly between the shoulder blades so he staggers forward, regaining his feet.
“You alright, Cai?” I hear one of his team mutter under his breath.
“Fine,” Caiden snaps, still not taking his eyes off me.
We go again, faster, harder. He’s stopped being careful about how he looks and started caring about not losing, which is a much more interesting version of him.
Our bodies collide, slide, break apart, and my focus narrows to the heat of his skin through the thin uniform fabric, the rasp of his breath, and the tiny tells in his shoulders when he’s about to commit.
He gets me in a hold that would be decent against someone slower. His arm around my waist, weight driving me sideways, and thigh blocking my knee. I let him have it for a few seconds — long enough for the room murmurs — then I drop my centre of gravity and throw my weight backwards, hip-checking him off balance.
We hit the mat together, and he grunts as my shoulder digs into his chest. He recovers quickly and tries to roll us, but I’m ready. I trap his wrist, slide my leg across his hips, and in an ugly, efficient motion, I have him pinned under me.
My thighs bracket his, my weight is on his sternum, and it’s just enough to make his breath hitch. His arm is twisted with his elbow joint on the edge of a lock. One twitch from me and he’ll either tap or scream. “See?” I say loudly enough for everyone. “Technique. Leverage. Even if they’re heavier, you can take control. Especially if they insist on making clever comments in class.”
Niko pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s got a migraine. Caiden glares up at me, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. His chest rising fast under my palm. “Arseny,” he says, low enough that the crowd won’t hear. “You’ve made your point. Let me up.”
He could tap, but he doesn’t. Stubborn bastard.
