Page 68 of Trust

Sara takes the knife from Cash without hesitation. Her fingers grip it with ease, the movement practiced and sure.

Standing across from me, she lets the blade rest low by her side. It’s not threatening, but she’s ready. Her stance holds more strength than I remember, as if her body finally knows what it’s doing.

I take a few steps in, circling slowly.

She watches me. Chin tilted slightly down, brows drawn, body loose but coiled underneath. She’s calm, present.

Cash props himself against the back of the couch, arms crossed, observing with a smug sort of satisfaction.

I begin with a light test, a lunge lacking speed or commitment, meant only to gauge her response. She reacts effortlessly, twisting, pulling the knife back, slipping out of reach, eyes never leaving mine.

Huh. Better than I expected.

I try again, faster this time. She shifts her weight and meets my move, blocking my reach with a clean, economical motion.

Her body moves with conviction now. She’s clearly using the corrections Cash drilled into her today and making them count.

The third time I grab her wrist, she twists away, the blade trailing her steps with purpose, owning every second. That pulls a real smile out of me. “Not bad,” I say.

Cash chuckles behind me. “Try to stab him.”

Sara stiffens. “What?”

Cash shrugs, all ease and no concern. “You learned the moves. Show him.”

She wavers, reading both of us. I give a single nod. “Go for it.”

At first, she’s playing it safe, then she steps in with commitment.

The change is immediate. Feet planted, blade forward, eyes locked. She’s measured. The blade leads, guided by an awareness she’s only beginning to possess. She lunges deliberately.

I block and twist, forcing her off balance. She recovers and comes again. Her movement lacks polish and precision, but it’s far better than a few hours of practice should produce.

“You’re holding back,” I tell her.

Cash steps forward, his voice ringing with encouragement. “Don’t. He’s fine. Get him.”

She breathes out and pushes harder.

Her tempo picks up, no more hesitation. Her movements are raw and driving, powered by an undercurrent I hadn’t accounted for. She’s testing the edge, not trying to win. But she remembers the strikes, the angles.

I parry, sidestep, redirect. I’m stronger and quicker, and she knows it, yet she keeps coming. Three times in a row I let her press in. With each pass she commits more.

She’s proving a point, to me and to herself.

Then it happens: the brief falter. Her breath stutters. Her shoulders drop a fraction. She’s reached her limit.

I step forward and calmly close my hand around her wrist, careful not to startle her. “Enough,” I murmur.

She releases the knife when I reach for it. Her cheeks are bright, hair plastered to her temple, sweat beading along her neck.

“You can try to kill me again tomorrow. Go get some rest.”

A quick, breathless laugh slips free, pride lacing her voice. “Deal.”

She brushes past me, exhausted and glowing. Cash’s hoodie is thrown over one shoulder as she climbs the stairs and disappears into the bathroom.

The silence hangs for a beat, then I turn to Cash. I fold my arms and lounge against the scarred wall. “All right. Start talking.”