Chapter 84 Tumble Training
I knew I was in trouble the moment Vincent told me to step into the ring again.
Not because I was tired,I’d been tired since the first hour of training, since the bruises bloomed along my ribs and my knuckles burned raw,but because of the look in his eyes. Not cruel. Worse than cruel. It was Precise.
I rolled my shoulders, shaking out the ache, and planted my feet on the mat. The underground training facility smelled like metal, sweat, and old stone. The lights overhead hummed faintly, too bright, too white. Everything felt sharpened here, like the room itself was waiting for me to fail.
Vincent didn’t move. He just tilted his head slightly, arms loose at his sides.
“Again,” he said.
It was the tenth time he’d said it. Maybe more. I’d lost count somewhere between my third fall and my first flare of real anger.
I lunged.
Too fast.
He stepped aside like he’d already seen it coming. My strike cut through empty air, momentum carrying me forward. I twisted, kicked low, aiming for his knee.
Blocked.
His shin met mine with a sharp crack that sent a jolt up my leg. I hissed, barely keeping my balance. I didn’t give myself time to think. Thinking was the problem. Thinking led to hesitation, and hesitation was death.
I swung again, a punch aimed for his jaw.
He caught my wrist.
Just like that.
One second I was attacking, the next I was immobilized, his grip iron-tight, unyielding. He pulled me forward, closing the distance until there was barely any space between us.
“That anger in your gut?” he said quietly, his voice low enough that it didn’t carry beyond us. “That thing you keep letting drive you?”
I glared up at him, teeth clenched.
“That’s your father’s legacy,” he continued. “Use it,but don’t let it control you.”
Something inside me snapped.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. His grip tightened, just slightly, enough to remind me that he could put me on the ground again whenever he wanted. Enough to make the memory surge up without permission.
Hands on my arms. Cold metal restraints. Voices talking about me like I wasn’t there.
My breath shuddered, betraying me.
“You know nothing about me,” I said, my voice sharp, brittle.
His eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they sharpened.
“I know,” he said evenly, “that you carry a lot of pain. And a lot of anger.”
That did it.
I ripped my wrist free with a snarl, twisting hard enough to scrape skin. I shoved him back, putting space between us, my whole body buzzing with fury.
He didn’t stumble. He didn’t even look surprised.
Instead, he smirked.
“Good,” he said. “Use that fire.”
I didn’t answer.
I attacked.
This time, I didn’t rush. I let the anger sit in my chest, hot and heavy, but I didn’t let it explode. I moved faster, sharper, chaining strikes together. He blocked one, dodged another, but I caught him with a glancing blow to the shoulder.
The impact jarred my arm.
He smiled.
We circled each other, feet sliding across the mat, breaths steadying into a brutal rhythm. I could feel every scrape and bruise now, my body fully present in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. No fog. No dissociation. Just sensation.
I went low, feinted left, then swept right.
He jumped it, but I was already moving, spinning into a kick that forced him to block high. For a split second, I thought I had him.
Then the world flipped.
My legs were gone from under me, Vincent’s foot hooking behind my ankle with ruthless efficiency. I hit the mat hard, the air knocked clean out of my lungs. Pain flared bright and immediate.
I lay there for half a heartbeat, staring up at the lights.
Vincent looked down at me, unimpressed.
“You telegraph when you get emotional,” he said. “Might as well send a written invitation.”
I pushed myself up on one elbow, scowling. “You enjoy this way too much.”
“Correction,” he said. “I enjoy watching you almost get it.”
I snarled and scrambled to my feet, dusting myself off. “Almost still means you’re standing.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he agreed. “For now.”
I lunged again, frustration creeping back in, and that was my mistake. He used my momentum against me, redirecting, forcing me to pivot too hard. I stumbled.
“Balance,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather.
I swung blindly, more insult than strategy.
He ducked and clipped my other leg.
I went down again, this time managing to roll instead of crash. The mat burned against my skin as I skidded to a stop. I lay there, breathing hard, humiliation burning hotter than the bruises.
I glared up at him. “If this is your idea of encouragement.”
“You’re thinking again,” he cut in. “Stop.”
I laughed, sharp and humorless. “Easy for you to say.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “It isn’t.”
That gave me pause.
He extended a hand,not to help me up, but to gesture. “On your feet.”
I stood, slower this time.
“Your problem,” Vincent continued, “is that you treat every fight like it’s the last one you’ll ever have.”
I stiffened.
“You don’t fight to win,” he said. “You fight to survive.”
My jaw tightened. “Same thing.”
“No,” he said calmly. “Winning requires clarity. Surviving just requires panic.”
That hit uncomfortably close to the truth.
I shifted my stance, grounding myself the way the shrink had taught me. Feeling the mat beneath my feet. The air in my lungs. The weight of my own body.
“Again,” Vincent said.
This time, when I attacked, I listened to my body instead of the noise in my head. I let my instincts guide me, but I didn’t surrender to them. When he blocked, I adjusted. When he countered, I flowed around it.
We moved faster, our strikes blurring together. My muscles screamed, but I ignored them. I caught him in the ribs. He elbowed me in the shoulder. I stumbled, recovered, drove forward.
Then he swept me again.
I groaned as I hit the mat. “You do that one more time and I swear…”
“And you’ll what?” he asked mildly.
I rolled onto my back, propping myself up on my elbows. “Trip you back.”
He arched a brow. “With what leverage?”
“This,” I said, hooking my leg around his ankle and yanking.
He wasn’t expecting it.
Vincent went down with a startled grunt, hitting the mat beside me. For half a second, there was silence.
Then he laughed.
Actually laughed.
The sound startled me more than the fall had. It was low and genuine, rough around the edges, like it didn’t get used often. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, still chuckling.
I blinked at him. “Did I break you?”
He shook his head, still smiling. “No. You surprised me.”
I pushed myself up, heart thudding, something strange and light flickering in my chest. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”
He rolled to his feet and offered a hand this time. I took it, letting him pull me up.
“Not bad,Luna” he said. “Smart move.”
I smirked despite myself. “Careful. You keep complimenting me and I’ll start to think you no longer hold a grudge against me.”
He snorted. “Don’t push it.”
We squared off again, but something had shifted. The tension was still there, sharp and electric, but it wasn’t just adversarial anymore. It was… collaborative. Like he wasn’t trying to break me, he was trying to build something sturdier out of the wreckage.
I attacked again, cleaner this time.
He blocked, countered, pressed me hard enough that I had to think, really think, about every movement. When I faltered, he didn’t mock me. He corrected me. When I succeeded, even barely, his eyes lit with approval.
We went at it until my arms trembled and sweat soaked through my clothes. Until my lungs burned and my anger burned out, leaving behind something steadier.
When he finally called a halt, I bent over, hands on my knees, gasping.
“Still standing,” he said.
Barely, I thought. But I straightened anyway.
“See?” he added. “You don’t need to drown in it. The anger. You just need to aim it.”
I wiped sweat from my brow, nodding slowly. “And if I lose control?”
His expression sobered. “Then we stop. You learn. And we start again.”
I met his gaze, searching for any hint of judgment.
There was none.
Just expectation.