Page 96 of His Hell Girl

Taking advantage of the millisecond his guard is down, I grab on to his shirt, positioning my hands and legs the way he'd taught me in order to balance weight much greater than my own. My grip solid, I throw all my strength into moving him.

He's like a rock—heavy and unbudging. And even though my technique is flawless, I can see I'm not likely to gain the upper hand on him. Not even by using his weakness—batting my lashes at him.

There's a split second reaction as I note the corner of his mouth tugs up before he lets his body become slack. Barely realizing what I'm doing, I'm kicking him to the ground, his body falling effortlessly—suspiciously effortlessly.

Vlad even has the gall to complain about the pain as his back hits the hard floor.

I simply raise an eyebrow at him, knowing he just did it to please me.

"Again." I cross my arms in front of me, beckoning him to resume a fighting position.

Almost from the beginning he'd insisted on teaching me how to fight, saying he'd feel much at ease if he knew I could take care of myself.

We'd done some basic training in New York, but ever since we got here, he'd been more rigid with the training schedule, giving me lessons in shooting, knife fighting and fist fighting.

To my great surprise, he hadn't been kidding when he'd said the entire basement is custom made. There's a shooting range equipped with everything to ensure I become proficient in hitting my targets, but there are also a couple training rooms—one specifically designed for knives, and one resembling a gym.

I'd been dumbstruck about the size of the basement, but Vlad had recounted he'd expanded it under the gardens too, not only under the house. He's essentially imitating his own underground bunker from New York.

Sometimes this gives me pause, and it makes me wonder if this is all he knows—living underground and away from people.

Certainly, he seems more comfortable under a layer of cement.

"Stop treating me like I'm fragile," I tell him. No matter how much he wants to train me, he can't help himself from holding back.

"You're not fragile," he says as he gets back to his feet. "You're anything but fragile, Sisi." His hand cups my cheek as he brings me into him. "But I'm a brute, and I know my strength. So I can'tnotbe careful with you."

I roll my eyes at him, a little annoyed that he's not trying harder, but understanding where he's coming from.

"Fine," I huff out, taking a step back and assuming a fighting stance again.

We do a few more rounds where he teaches me some parrying moves and how to evade capture before we focus strictly on building my strength through weightlifting.

"You're doing great," he praises when I finish one set, my arms already sore.

"You're not a bad teacher." I shrug, taking the towel he offers and wiping the sweat off my face and body.

Vlad had thought of everything, and he'd bought me an entire set of gym clothes, most of them involving yoga pants and a sports bra, which retrospectively hadn't been the best decision.

Not when he can barely take his eyes off my boobs when we're doing an exercise. Or the way I know he's staring at my ass when I squat.

I might have even gone out of my way to tease him a little, flexing my ass or bouncing my boobs when I know he's looking, but pretending not to.

The reaction is immediate and he's promptly caught. He's not the only one with betraying clothes, and his sweatpants do little to hide just how affected he is.

After hours of training, we finally finish for the day, quickly showering before going out in the city for dinner.

"Tomorrow we're doing knives," he speaks as the waiter brings us our food.

"Yes," I exclaim, bumping my fist in the air.

He'd made a strict schedule for me, with every day accounted for. Somehow, though, he'd decided that the focus should be on building my strength and learning hand to hand combat. So he'd only set up one day for knives and one day for shooting.

"A weapon can always be taken from you," he'd remark whenever I'd pout about it. He knows that I've developed an affinity for knives—probably because of him. Still, he hadn't budged in his conviction.

Vlad's lips pull up in a smile at my excitement and I cannot help but notice how handsome he is, freshly showered and wearing a dashing suit. Dressed all in black, it only serves to emphasize his striking features even more.

His hair is longer, refusing to cut it ever since I'd complimented him on it. And I do like it. It makes him seem younger, more carefree. Especially with the way it curls around the end, giving it a tousled appearance.

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