25. NICK

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“Isn’t that kind of the opposite of what you want?” she says. “I mean, if I’m ready, that kind of defeats the purpose, right?”

I hadn’t thought of that. I step away from my position behind her and walk around the mat until we’re facing each other.

“You’re right,” I say. “Plus, this way I get to look at you in your Spandex.”

She gives me a crooked smile. “Keep your mind on the task at hand, please.”

“Right,” I say. “What was that, exactly?”

“Self-defense lessons!” she says, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me.

“Right!” I say. In that instant, I step forward and thrust my right arm under her left while pivoting my hip under hers. A simple twist and she flies overtop of me, landing on the mat with a heavy whap.

“No fair!” she wails from the floor. “I wasn’t – ”

“Ready?” I say.

The look she gives me could curdle milk.

“Very funny, comrade,” she growls, taking my offered hand and pulling herself to her feet.

I shrug. “You gave me the opening. It’s a good lesson to learn.”

“What is?”

“Never trust an opponent,” I say. “Not even me. Especially not me, because I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“Good,” she says defiantly. “I don’t want you to.”

I’m glad we’ve gotten to this point. Storm has been studying with me for a couple of weeks now, but I’m not sure if she really understands what we’re doing. This isn’t an exercise class.

“I haven’t practiced the technique enough,” she gripes. “Give me some time and you won’t be able to do that again.”

Before she can say another word, I drop to my right knee and sweep her legs out from under her with my forearm. She hits the mat again.

“What the fuck was that?!” she fumes, scrambling to her feet. “I wasn’t ready!”

An instant later, I have both her arms trapped behind her and my lips are at her ear.

“I don’t give a fuck whether you’re ready,” I hiss. “Neither will the guy who’s going to drag you into the alley. He doesn’t care about technique, either.”

Storm is as mad as a wet cat, struggling against me with everything she’s got. But I don’t give an inch. Finally, when I feel her strength flagging, I let go.

She pulls away from me, rubbing her arms and panting.

“What was that supposed to accomplish?” she snaps. “Were you just trying to hurt me?”

“No,” I say evenly. “But whoever attacks you will be.”

She eyes me sullenly. “That’s supposed to be a lesson?”

“How did you feel when I had you?”

“Angry.”

“What else?”

She blinks, brows furrowed, thinking.

“Helpless,” she says quietly.

“Do you ever want to feel that way again?”

She straightens up and looks me in the eye. “Never.”

“Good. That’s the most important self-defense lesson you can ever learn.”

“I don’t get it,” she says. “How was that a lesson?”

I put my hands on my hips. “Techniques are fine,” I say. “But they won’t save your life. The greatest weapons in your arsenal are intention and focus.”

My father’s words come back to me like he’s here in the room, though when he spoke them to me, they were in Russian and I was just a boy. They’ve saved my life on more than one occasion, and I want Storm to understand them. She’s been pushed around since she was a child, always doing what others told her to do. I want her to learn how to take control of her life.

That kind of confidence comes from knowing she can handle anything that comes her way.

“What do you mean?” Storm asks, genuinely curious now.

“If you’re attacked, you focus on one thing and one thing only: stopping your attacker by any means necessary.”

She nods. “That makes sense. But what do you mean by intention?”

“You have to have the will to do what’s necessary,” I say. “You have to believe, deep down in your core, that you’re justified in doing anything it takes to survive. Ending the conflict is your only goal.”

She looks at the floor as that sinks in.

“So you’re saying don’t hold back. Ever.”

“Fight with everything you have, with no thought about consequences. If someone tries to hurt you, they’ve made their choice. They have to live – or die – with it.”

Storm nods. “I think I get it,” she says. “But it just sounds kind of… extreme.”

“Think about how you felt when you realized what Arkady and his friends were going to do to you at that party,” I say. It prompts a twinge in my gut, knowing that she has to relive that, but it’s necessary.

Her eyes cloud over. Good.

“Now think about how you felt when they were chasing you. When Arkady began firing at the boat.”

The flaring of her nostrils makes me swell with pride. She’s thinking about it in a new way – not as a victim remembering her helplessness, but as a warrior contemplating how she would have done things differently. It’s an important shift in thinking.

“All right,” I say, tossing a towel over my shoulder. “I think that’s enough for one day.”

Storm collects her things under her arm and heads for the door of the dojo. As she does, I catch up and drape an arm over her shoulders.

“You’re getting there,” I say.

“It’s a lot to learn – ”

Before she can finish her thought, I step behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, hoisting her roughly off the ground.

An instant later, there’s exquisite agony as the back of her head collides squarely with the bridge of my nose and her fingernails dig into my hands. I let her go and stumble backwards, holding my towel to my bleeding face.

“You done?” she pants. “Or do you need a little more?”

If she had run to me apologizing and asking if I was okay, I would have attacked her again. But she didn’t. She’s standing facing me, her fists raised.

“I told you before, you’re a natural at this,” I say, grinning widely.

“And you’re a sick old man.”

“How do you feel?”

She hesitates. “Strong,” she says finally. “Confident.”

I nod. “Here endeth the lesson.”

We walk in silence down the hallway towards the staircase that will take us up to my – our – room.

“Just to be clear,” she says as we start to climb. “I’m not going to attack you during your piano lessons.”

I grin. Next thing I know, the collar of my T-shirt is in her fist and her nose is touching mine. Her intense blue eyes bore into mine.

“Or am I?” she hisses through clenched teeth.

Part of me wants to laugh. Part of me wants to run. In the end, I choose to laugh, and so does she.

But the part of me that wanted to run knows that I’ve done my job.