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I blush. “Sorry.”
He waves me off, and we go a couple of rounds. I pick it up quickly. The moves come naturally, and after a while, it becomes instinct. The anxiety doesn’t completely go away, but it does recede a bit.
“Excellent,” Konstantin says, peppering me with encouragement every now and again. “You’re learning fast. Next thing to work on is your legs. Those are powerful muscles, and a good kick can be better than a punch.”
I give him an example of my roundhouse kick and he backs away, looking alarmed. “Jesus.”
“What? I learned that in a movie.”
“Makes sense.” He stifles a laugh. “Your form is all wrong. Movie kicks are all about style, not substance. You need to learn to do it properly. When you do, you create distance between yourself and your attacker.”
Konstantin walks me through the proper form, and I practice until I’m sweating.
Then he moves onto the next thing.
Despite his earlier protestations, he doesn’t seem to acknowledge I’m pregnant at all. He doesn’t hold back or check in to see if I’m tired. He treats me like an equal.
It’s… nice.
By the time we’re done, I’m soaked in sweat. Even Konstantin is a little damp.
“Wow,” I pant, hands on my knees. “That was a great lesson.”
We both drop down on the mat, breathing hard.
“That’s because I’m a great teacher,” Konstantin says. He tosses me a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge in the corner.
I take a long drink and swipe my forearm across my mouth. “I still want to learn how to handle a knife, though.”
He shakes his head. “Stubborn.”
“I have to be, to deal with your cousin.”
He chuckles. “Fair point. Luckily for you, I anticipated that.”
Then he reaches around behind him and reveals a small, sleek dagger. It’s sheathed in black leather, but when I pull it out of the holster, it gleams wickedly.
“It’s so beautiful,” I murmur. “So tiny, too.”
“Just what every man likes to hear about his weapon.”
I snort with laughter. Then something subtle catches my eye. “The hilt is engraved.”
He nods. “It belonged to someone I used to know.”
He doesn’t tell me who, and I reluctantly decide not to ask. If he wanted to tell me, he would have. Instead, I sheath the knife and place it on the mat between us.
“Can I ask you a question, Konstantin?”
He nods and takes a long drink.
“Why did you say you weren’t an Orlov earlier?”
I watch him pause mid-gulp, surprised by the question. Then he does his best to relax back into a reclined position. “Because I’m not.”
“It’s not your last name?”
“It is, but it’s a technicality,” he explains. “My mother was an Orlov. She was the elder Maksim’s younger sister. She gave me her name instead of my father’s. They weren’t married, and she was the first Orlov to have a child out of wedlock in… well, probably ever.”
