Page 48 of Save Me
My hand wraps around the grip, the metal cool and foreign against my skin. I have a momentary flashback to killing the betrayer and then Leonard, but I shove it aside. That was clumsy, lucky, even. Adam is going to show me how to do more than hope for the best.
His massive hand closes over mine as Quen slips into the gym, his eyes fixed on our joined hands, jealousy flashing in them. I try not to laugh that he thinks I can take on mountain man and not be ripped in half.
Shaking my head at Quen, I focus on Adam as he shows me the proper way to hold it, his large hand easily engulfing mine as he adjusts my fingers. “Balance is key,” he says. “Don’t grip too tight.”
I nod, focusing on the feel of the knife in my hand. Adam steps back, watching as I practice the thrusts and parries, he demonstrates. The blade slices through the air, a whisper of danger in the quiet room. It’s a dance of sorts, one where a single misstep could mean disaster.
“Stance wider,” Adam corrects. “Be ready to move.”
I obey, finding my centre of gravity. With each movement, I grow more attuned to the weapon, the initial awkwardness giving way to burgeoning confidence. But there’s no room for pride here—not when there’s so much at stake.
“Better,” he says, a flicker of approval in his eyes. That’s all I get, but it’s enough to lift my spirits. “Again.”
I shift my weight, feeling the knife’s balance like it’s an extension of my own arm now. The blade glints under the harsh fluorescent lights as I swing, each strike aimed with more precision than the last. There’s a rhythm to it, the sound sharp and clean as it slices through each target Adam sets up. With every hit, a small sense of achievement blooms inside me.
“Good,” Adam’s deep voice grunts from the corner of the room. He doesn’t dole out praise easily, so I soak up the word, letting it bolster my concentration.
“Time for sparring,” Adam announces. He gestures Quen forward and towers over both of us, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me. “Quen will give you a better fight.”
Quen cracks his knuckles, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. I can tell he’s serious, but there’s excitement there, too, a thrill at the fight. We square off, the air charged with anticipation. We start circling, and I grip the knife tighter, trying to anticipate his moves.
I move, trying to keep pace with Quen, who’s light on his feet, his own training evident in the way he dodges and weaves.
“Focus!” Adam barks from the sidelines. His voice is enough to snap my attention back, just in time to block Quen’s advance. There’s a grunt of impact, the force reverberating up my arm, but I hold steady.
I counter, and Quen parries, and we’re locked in this play of power and precision. Sweat trickles down my back, but I can feel it—the progress, the edge I’m starting to hone. Each swipe, each dodge, feels less like mimicry and more like instinct.
Quen’s fast, faster than I expect, and his moves are sharp, calculated. I watch him, my mind racing for any gap in his defence, any slight misstep I can use to my advantage. But he’s good, damn good, with a kind of fluidity that speaks of years spent honing his skills. His upper hand is clear, and it only fuels my determination to do better.
He lunges, and I sidestep, barely avoiding a sweep aimed at my legs. I pivot and throw a punch, aiming for his side, but he’s already there, blocking, pushing back with a force that says he’s holding back because I’m new at this.
Fucker.
Mind you, if he came at me full tilt, I’d be dead. So, there’s that.
“Good,” Adam grunts from somewhere behind me.
I feint left, and Quen takes the bait, shifting his weight. It’s a split-second where his guard drops, just enough for me to slip through. My heart hammers as I take the chance, throwing my whole body into a strike.
But Quen recovers too quickly, and my moment of hope crashes as his fist connects with my midsection, driving the air out of my lungs. Pain explodes across my torso, bright and blinding, and the ground rushes up to meet me. I hit the mat hard, the breath whooshed out of me in a painful gasp.
“Shit! Vogue!” Quen is next to me in an instant. “I didn’t mean… fuck, I’m sorry…”
For a second, everything stops—the pain is all-consuming, and frustration boils over as his voice drifts over my flattened senses. I’m on the floor, defeated, winded. But then something else kicks in. It’s that same drive that got me through long nights of studying, starving, freezing, fucking strangers for money—resilience. I will not stay down. I refuse.
“Get up, Vogue,” Adam’s voice cuts through the haze of pain. It’s not gentle or kind; it’s a command, an expectation. I press my palms against the mat and push, every fibre of my being screaming in protest. But I rise, shaky and seething, ready to go again.
“Again,” I rasp out, locking eyes with Quen.
He shakes his head. “No. I hurt you. That’s not okay.”
“I’m not a fucking pussy. I’m on my feet. Go.”
We stand off for a few seconds, but he sees I’m not backing down. I know he will ease up even more now, but I need the practice, and it’s either him or Adam, who Iknowwill kill me with a single swipe of his enormous fist. Quen knows it too.
He nods, a silent acknowledgement of the odds—and the fact that I’m not out of this fight yet. Not by a long shot.
Sweat trickles down the side of my face, but I hardly notice it anymore. My muscles ache, and my breath comes in ragged gasps as I feint left and land a solid punch on Quen’s midsection. He grunts, a sign I’m hitting harder than before. I throw another combination, quicker this time, and Adam’s voice breaks through the pounding in my ears.
