Page 229 of Fractured Loyalties
Her tone is sharp enough to cut hesitation. I square my shoulders, plant my feet the way she showed me earlier. My knees feel shaky, but I lock them into place.
Lydia gives a small grunt, not approval exactly, more like acknowledgment. “Better. Imagine it. A man grabs you from the front.” She lunges, sudden, hand flashing toward my wrist. Instinct flares, messy and clumsy. I twist toward her thumb just like she said.
The baton wobbles, nearly slips from my grip. My chest hitches, heat crawling up my throat.
Lydia leans back, one brow raised. “You hesitate, you lose it. You lose it, you better find teeth or elbows.”
I clench the baton harder. “You don’t exactly inspire confidence.”
“I’m not here to inspire,” she says, flat. “I’m here to keep you alive long enough to matter.”
The room feels too large for what’s happening inside it. The sleek furniture, the glass walls, the polished wood—it doesn’t match the training drill I’ve just been dragged into. But maybe that’s the point. The danger doesn’t care about settings. It doesn’t wait until you’re ready.
She grabs again. This time, I twist faster, yanking my arm free before she can clamp down. My heart kicks hard. I snap the baton forward, the strike stopping inches from her hip.
“Closer,” Lydia says, eyes glinting. “If you’re going to hit, you commit. None of this halfway shit. Halfway gets you dragged into a van.”
I swallow. My hands sweat against the grip, but I nod.
Her gaze sharpens, measuring me again. “Elias ever teach you this?”
“No.” My voice is thinner than I want it to be. “He teaches in other ways.”
Lydia tilts her head, something like amusement shadowing her mouth. “Yeah. I’ve seen his other ways.”
The implication sparks heat and shame in equal measure. I shove it down. “You said thirty seconds. That’s all?”
“That’s all you need. You make it thirty seconds without folding; someone else is watching. A camera. A bystander. Him.” She jerks her chin toward the door, toward wherever Elias has gone. “Your job isn’t to finish the fight. Your job is to not disappear before backup arrives.”
I think of the Civic. Of the grainy frames of men holding phones low to catch reflections. Of Elias walking straight into their net. I wonder who’s backing him up right now, or if he doesn’t believe in the word at all.
My hand trembles around the baton. Lydia notices, but she doesn’t call it weakness. Instead, she taps her boot against mine again, setting my feet wider.
“Again,” she says.
This time, when she grabs, I swing. The baton smacks against her arm with a crack that echoes through the sterile living room. The sound startles me more than the hit. I almost drop it. Lydia just smirks.
The crack of the baton against her arm still buzzes in my wrist. My ears hum with it, too loud in the quiet. Lydia shakes her arm once, not in pain, just a test of muscle, then steps back in, crowding me again.
“Better,” she says. “But men don’t always come at you clean. Most will go for hair. They like control first.”
My stomach knots before she even moves.
Her hand fists in my damp hair and jerks my head back. I gasp, knees buckling. The baton nearly slips again. My scalp screams where she pulls.
“Step in,” she orders.
I don’t think. I stumble forward instead of back, crashing my shoulder into hers. The momentum makes her grip loosen. I swing the baton up and catch her ribs with the edge. Not hard. Enough.
She lets go. My chest heaves, heat crawling up my face.
“Good,” she says again. “Closer is better than retreat. They expect fear to pull you away. Step in, you ruin their balance.”
“I thought you said—” My throat catches. “You said survival, not winning.”
“Sometimes survival means making them regret choosing you in the first place.” She studies me, head tipped slightly. “You’ve got speed. That’s more useful than strength.”
I wipe a strand of wet hair from my cheek. My hands shake harder now, but I refuse to hide them.
