Page 32 of Marked By His Touch

“I’m alive,” I manage, my voice is raspy.

“Alive is good,devushka,” Zara says, her eyes glinting.

I nod, watching her swirl out of the room.

I drag myself out of the bed and wander down the hall and into the living room. The space, with its rough-hewn wooden furniture and the massive stone fireplace, feels strangely sterile, and it’s starting to grate on my nerves.Creak, creak, creak.

Isaac, the ever-watchful guardian, is slumped in a chair, his brow furrowed, a cup of coffee perched precariously on the table beside him. He’s up early.

Have they been looking for me? I sneaked out late. I didn’t think anyone would notice.

“You’re back, I see,” he says, his voice gruff. “Where the hell were you? We were worried!” He stands, his brows furrowed. He’s like a dad who found his kid sneaking out at night.

“I was busy,” I say, forcing a light tone, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just, um, around.”

He looks at me, his eyes sharp, piercing through my carefully constructed facade. He knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t push it.

I should tell him, but how? What will he do? What will Alexander do?

“Alexander went looking for you,” he murmurs and sits down again. “He’s still out.”

“I can handle myself,” I say, my voice firmer than I feel. The truth is, I’m not sure I can. But I can’t let my fear show. Not to Isaac, not to anyone, even if I feel like I’m about to break.

My stomach growls again.And my brain. But I ignore the exhaustion that wants to pull me under. I need to get my head back in the game. Train. Prepare. Survive. Learn.

I leave the room, escaping Isaac’s blaming looks, and instead make my way to the girls' corridor. I burst into Zara’s room, which she shares with two other girls; a rush of lavender and vanilla meets my nostrils. It’s all a bit too sweet for my taste.

“Zara. We’re training.”

She groans, her eyes squeezed shut. “Slatka—is early. I need beauty rest.”

“This isn’t the time for sleep. The sun’s up.” I grab her arm, pull her towards the edge of the bed, and give her a little push. “You can sleep when it’s over.”

She stumbles to her feet, cursing in Russian, but I don’t care. I need to train. I need to be ready.

“When what over?”

“Nothing.”

“What happened?” she grunts, her eyes narrowing.

“Later,” I say. “We’re training now.”

Zara doesn’t give me any lip this time; she grabs her boxing gloves from a pile in the corner and tosses them to me.

“I don’t need them. I’m going bare today,” I say, clenching my fists until my knuckles are white.

The soundsof my knuckles against the heavy bag reverberate through the gym. The thudding rhythm is a beat, a release. With each hit, I’m punching Nikolai Romanov’s pretty face. I move with a ferocity I didn’t know I had, each punch a way to eliminate the fear, frustration, and uncertainty. Sweat drips from my brow, a salty, cleansing release. This isn’t just about punching a bag; it’s about fighting back in this messed-up world. Zara looks like she’s fallen asleep, her back leaning against the wall, blissfully unaware of my inner frustrations.

After an hour of training, the door creaks open, and a familiar scent of sandalwood and cologne fills the air. I glance up.

Alexander stands there, a force of nature ready to unleash its fury. The light of dawn highlights the dark circles under his eyes.

I don’t fear him, though; I know he’ll never hurt me.

“Where were you?” he says, his voice a low growl, the kind of voice that makes strong men tremble. He looks like a volcano about to erupt, every muscle in his body taut.

“Nowhere,” I say, my voice flat, trying to sound nonchalant, but the truth is, my heart is throbbing in my chest.

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