“Lazits, Fae. Accuracy requires a clear mind and a cleansed soul.” A fencing mask blanketed Andras’ face. “You are inside your own head, and that is not a good place to be. Focus. Mérd fel a távolságot.”
Check your distance.
My Hungarian skills hovered somewhere above fetus and below toddler, but Andras repeated the same commands often enough that I’d memorized them all.
He swatted my calf with his sabre. “You are standing too far. You are showing me your weakness. I can smell it all the way from here.”
Each admonition sounded harsher in his formal, contraction-less way of speaking.
I only half-tracked his quick leg work as he completed a balestra, replaying yesterday’s showdown with Zach in my head.
His taunt bounced between my temples.
I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.
With my luck, the surprise would be worse than the punishment I’d barely escaped.
I backed away from Andras, nearly tripping on the piste as he launched himself at me.
“Retreat.” He trained the point of his sabre at my masked face. “How do you expect me to prepare you for the Olympics if you lose focus in such a simple training?”
I didn’t expect him to get me to the Olympics.
Not after I’d already tried once and blown it in the most spectacular fashion.
It would hurt less if I’d lost out on a roster spot due to my shortcomings as a fencer.
Nope. My demise was my own doing.
A part of me—a big part of me—knew I didn’t deserve a second chance after what I’d done.
I yielded my sabre, refocusing my attention on my fifty-four-year-old coach. “Shit, my bad.”
“Nyasgem.” He punctuated his curse with a disgusted grunt. “Next time your eyes wander from my sabre, I will stab you with it.”
Focus, Farrow.
Before he makes a sieve out of you.
We’d switched it up today, using sabres to work on my leg speed. I’d gone for a long stretch of time without any training, courtesy of my new sixty-hour work weeks.
But thanks to my devil in shining armor, this would soon change. Working for Zach freed up more time for fencing.
I grinned behind my mask. “Don’t blink.”
Without mercy, I advanced, taking advantage of our size difference.
My turn.
I aimed for Andras’ head when he parried, directing a thrust at my shoulder. But I was faster than a bullet.
I shifted, catching his masked face with the point of my sword. The buzzer rang across the room, adding a tally to my half of the scoreboard.
I didn’t need the electric wires to tell me I’d earned the point.
Behind the sword, you just knew.
Andras tore the mask from his face and dumped it at his feet, shaking his gloved fist at me. “Where were you the entire match? You came to life twenty seconds before we finished.”
I pulled my mask off and shrugged. “Twenty seconds is all I need to win.”
I’d lost any right to be arrogant after The Incident, but with Andras, I could.
He never judged anything outside of technique and effort. Never made me feel like a lesser person for making that mistake.
I set my mask on a bench outside the piste lines, listening to his bitching. I deserved every single insult thrown my way.
Luckily, most of them were in Hungarian, so I couldn’t understand.
Andras had graciously agreed to rework his schedule to fit mine. He trained me at six in the morning, three times a week.
He deserved one-hundred percent of me.
Andras followed me as I padded to the orange cooler. “You look like a novice who watched The Parent Trap and decided to take on fencing. An embarrassing amateur.”
I hovered my lips an inch shy of the tap, gulping ice water. “Won’t happen again.”
He tailed me as I headed toward the locker room. “Of course, it will not. If you show up in this condition on Thursday, I am suspending you as an instructor.”
That stopped me in my tracks.
I whirled around in the middle of the hallway. Two amateur fencers bumped into me but apologized quick, even though it was my fault.
I shook my head. “You can’t do that.”
Andras planted his fists on his waist.
It used to creep me out when his light-blue, almost translucent eyes bored into mine. Now, I found comfort in them.
With Dad gone, no one else cared enough to stare at me like this.
Wrinkles stacked on Andras’ wide-set forehead like Jenga blocks. Short and wide, he didn’t have the perfect stats for a fencer.
And yet, the world considered him the best instructor to ever grace the sport.
The Fourth Mouseketeer.
A living legend.
People shouldered past us, rushing to sessions with their instructors. Potomac Hills Country Club offered Olympic-grade, professional fencing facilities.
If you could afford them.
Or if your coach was The Andras Horvath.
The supersized digital clock fixed on the far wall reminded me my student would arrive soon. I needed to prepare.
He didn’t appreciate tardiness.
I dropped my voice to a whisper, sweeping my eyes across the club. “I need the money.”
Not really.
I needed the client.
But God forbid some asshole overhear our conversation and pass it along to Vera. For someone as lazy and allergic to math as my stepmother, she sure kept a militant eye on my finances.
“My academy, my rules.” Andras charged forward until our noses almost touched. A whoosh of apprehension somersaulted in my belly. “I am not here to help you maintain your hobby. I am here for the gold medal, and you are my best shot. You are the most talented student under this roof. If we do not share the same goal, the same discipline, you know your way out.”
Oh, Fae.
So delusional of you to have called that straight-out-of-The-Shining Kubrick Stare affectionate.
Something so silly as human emotions couldn’t possibly penetrate the thick cloud of Andras’ one-track mind.
He lived and breathed fencing.
Nothing else mattered to him but an Olympic gold.
I swallowed down the bitter comeback lodged in my throat. There was a lot I wanted to say.
That I didn’t have time.
That sometimes I saw two of him when we dueled and the sleep deprivation played tricks on my mind.
That the calluses from cleaning had overridden the fencing calluses, and now the sword handle felt strange in my hand.
And mostly, that I wasn’t even sure I could qualify for the Olympics with my record and the fine I was still paying off.
In the end, all I said was, “Duly noted. Now… may I please get changed before my student arrives?”
Without a word, he swiveled, storming in the opposite direction toward the reception area.
Andras always walked like that. Like an Axis general from the ’40s.
I chewed on my inner cheek, finally making it to the locker room. There, I pulled out my fencing gear and raked my fingers along my upper arm.
Andras had left a mild cut there, just like he’d promised he would. Only he had ever managed to pierce my fencing lamé and padded plastron.
They must’ve torn beforehand, and he knew it. A gross violation of the sport’s ethics. And exactly something Andras would do.
Asshole.
A thin trickle of blood ran down my arm, snaking all the way to the elbow.
I turned on the tap and rinsed it with warm water, before pulling a first aid kit out of my locker and bandaging myself up.
Sweaty, uneven locks of yellow-white hair fell into my eyes. Haircuts were for people with money.
Pretty soon, it would reach my butt, and Andras would curse me for my frugality, then hack at it with a rusted pair of kitchen shears.
Rinse and repeat.
I checked the time on my phone.
Eight minutes until the lesson.
Andras paid me under the table (to save himself employment taxes), but that wasn’t why I’d chosen to teach.
I only had one student, and I’d taken him on because I needed intel. In fact, this very same student once said in an interview that data is the new gold.
I couldn’t agree more.
Seven minutes left.
Enough time to reply to the string of messages my best friend from the fencing academy in Seoul had left me.
Ari:
I cannot believe you aren’t here when I’m planning a WEDDING.
The betrayal cuts so deep.
Ari:
[Christian Bale Covered in Blood, Lighting a Cigar GIF]
Ari:
When do you start work for American Psycho again?
Ari:
(They should totally reboot this as a new movie, starring the Suns.)
I grinned, my thumbs flying over the screen as I answered her.
Farrow:
Not until Monday.
Why?
Ari:
I want you to have hot, angry sex with him.
Farrow:
I really don’t think he’s interested in me in that way.
Ari:
Then, I wish you’d just let me lend you the money you need to pay for the penalty and fight your stepmom.
Ari:
Seriously, you can pay me back little by little.
You know my family can afford it.
Farrow:
I know.
But it’s my journey.
Farrow:
I really appreciate it. I just wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did that.
Ari:
Ugh. I hate you.
Farrow:
I love you.
Ari:
Fine.
Ari:
Love you, too.
Farrow:
Say hi to Hae-in for me.
I glanced at the overhead clock suspended above the old blue tiles.
7:02 a.m.
Fuck.
With a huff, I collected my hair into a tight ponytail, gathering it all the way inside my fencing mask.
I double-checked the mirror for flyaways, tucked them each beneath the tongue, and shimmied my gloves on, collecting my gear from the floor.
The hallway had emptied in the past ten minutes. I forced myself to take leisured steps. To decelerate my heart rate.
A uniformed teen pushed open the door for me. I flexed my fingers beneath my gloves, soaking in the scene.
A dozen fencers in full gear danced on pistes planted all over the massive room. Swords clinked in a unique symphony that never failed to send goosebumps down my spine.
A week had passed since our last lesson.
Six days since the soirée.
One final Friday before my official starting date at the king’s lair.
My student stood alone on a piste, the only fencer still waiting.
Back to me. Hands clasped behind him. His face staring out the window in silence as if the lowly pupils around him didn’t deserve his attention.
The épée—his discipline and weapon of choice—complemented him. It made for the slowest, most deliberate combat. With the entire body as a target.
More importantly, the right of way did not apply to this fencing style. Therefore, of the three disciplines, this was the most savage.
Which was precisely why it suited Zachary Sun.
The man wasn’t a knight in shining armor. A hero of high morals here to save the day.
No, he was a sleek predator.
A monster who struck whomever and however he wished, so long as it got him closer to his goal.
Somehow, this ruthless predator had convinced Vera to hire three cleaners for our company before he’d left the other day.
I couldn’t believe my own ears when she sat me and my stepsisters down to break the news.
She couldn’t stop gushing about him. How he admired her business plan and how he’d offer her more ideas to expand it in due time.
“This is a new era, girls. I opened the door to the greatest business opportunity. Your mother has achieved something your father never could.”
“Jane Doe.” Zach still stared out the window, roping me back into the present. “You’re late.”
For weeks, I’d hardly spoken to him while we trained. With his shrewdness, it wouldn’t take much for him to recognize my voice.
I couldn’t risk it.
Not with so much intel about his party to collect.
Now, there was no need to preserve my cover.
I sauntered to the piste, taking position in front of him. “Sword. Mask. Posture.”
He spun on his heel and narrowed the distance, draping his mask over his godlike face and picking up his épée in the process.
I inclined my chin. “En garde.”
His stance melted into position as if he’d been born into the art of fencing, the movement so effortless, I wanted to scream.
His right foot out front, angled toward my position, knees over toes. Back straight. Always. Arms nice and loose.
Nothing to critique.
I paced on the strip, slamming heavy breaths against my metal mask. “I’m going to be ruthless today,” I warned.
“Give me your worst.”
The fencing apparatus’ timer began to tick down. I sank into a deep lunge.
For an épée fencer, Zach favored aggressive play. He skipped the probes and advanced mere seconds into our first three minutes.
His lithe body spliced through the air, the point of his sword aimed straight for my heart. I dodged, retreated, then stepped forward.
He disregarded the move as a threat.
Arrogant bastard.
I made sure he regretted it, springing forward and rocketing into a dive, all the way to the floor, cutting him at the knees.
He growled at the contact but managed to bite his tongue.
The apparatus beep punctuated his retreat.
1-0.
He settled on his en-garde line. “Again.”
“Your instincts…” I snapped my fingers, turning away from him and returning to starting position. “…they’re not as good as you think.”
“I’m not paying you to talk, Jane.” He rearranged himself back into proper stance. “I’m paying you to fence.”
Be this way, and I will shred you into ribbons.
The next match, I bullied him by circling my sword the entire time it was in the air, hiking up his guard until his parries became fidgety.
He returned the favor with long, impressive strokes that kept me on my toes, plunging into my personal space when I least expected and coming at me with such hostility, you’d think I’d beheaded the Terracotta sculpture inside his home library.
He wielded a lethal combination of strength, speed, and combat joy. A true fan of the art of war.
The point of his sword kissed my shoulder. I grunted as if the contact hurt, pulling back with a yelp. “Ugh.”
1-1.
Zach retreated, strolling away as he admired his sword. “Be graceful in defeat.”
Famous last words.
We returned to our en-garde position and began again.
2-1.
3-1.
3-2.
As the bout progressed, I had to admit Zach could probably cinch a spot on the Olympic team.
He possessed all the coveted traits. Speed, agility, inhuman precognition, and superior observation skills.
He moved like a dancer with elegance and unparalleled discipline.
Midway through the second period, I’d stopped keeping track of the score. All I knew was that I would beat him.
I never lost.
I hurled the sword at him. “Why fencing?”
He dodged artfully.
If my question surprised him, he didn’t show it. This was more than I’d spoken to him in all four months we’d practiced together.
Without a cover to keep, I indulged my curiosity.
Correction: I intended to blow my cover on purpose.
I wanted him to know it was me who had taught him how to use a sword. That I knew how to impale one’s heart, and his was no different.
He executed a perfect passe arriere. “The touch of a blade is preferable to the touch of a human.”
“What’s wrong with humans?”
“Everything.” He attempted to hit my shoulder, but I ducked, twirling in place. “You, for instance, talk too much for my liking.”
“Find another trainer.”
A frosty chuckle chilled the air. “We both know you’re too talented to replace, something that cannot be said about the majority of workers.”
“Andras is a better instructor than me.”
“Andras is a dead horse. Bitter and mad at the world. A victim cannot become a victor. And I do not employ losers.”
Our swords zinged, meeting, pulling, then turning away from one another.
“You think so highly of yourself,” I growled.
“Only because most creatures are so lowly. Don’t you agree, Jane Doe?”
I advanced, lunging so fast, I left a gust of wind in my wake.
Through sheer athleticism rather than technique, he dodged my two jump flicks and tried but failed to aim at my heart.
I attacked him faster, relentlessly, refusing to give him a break between parries. He stumbled, falling to the floor, his back plastered against the piste.
Get used to this position.
After all, it’s how cooked lobsters are served.
Zach tried to recover. To spring to his feet. No matter how stellar his reflexes, he couldn’t match my practiced speed.
By the time his neck lifted off the alloy, his mask met the tip of my sword, making up for the two times he had his knife aimed at me.
The scoreboard beeped.
9-7.
A knot untightened in my stomach as I pressed my foot against his knee, stopping him from standing.
With a flick of my sword, I tossed the épée from his hand.
Zach remained on the piste, calm and collected under his mask, his chest barely rising with his breaths.
“That’s one very red card, Jane Doe.”
“Red happens to be my favorite color.”
I used the point of my épée to remove his mask, neck to scalp, careful not to graze his beautiful face with my blade.
As much as I hated to admit it, ruining such art would be a waste.
Zach was revealed to me inch by inch like the slow draw of a theater curtain, his stoic face unwavering and utterly breathtaking.
Somehow, his eyes tangled with mine through my mask. A shiver ran down my spine.
We weren’t touching.
Not really.
Layers of heavy fabric and pads separated my foot from his knee.
But I considered my sword an extension of my arm, and its point caressed the tip of his forehead, right where his widow’s peak led to a perfect lock of coal hair draping over his right eye.
He stayed perfectly still as I brushed it aside with my épée. “Interesting.”
“How so?”
“You’re an octopus, not a bull.”
My heart stopped in my chest.
I’d done it now.
I’d revealed myself to him.
With my stupid mouth and smartass attitude.
You wanted this, I reminded myself.
Somehow, it felt more like an accident than a goal.
I said nothing, fortunate enough to remember to breathe.
“Did you know…” His husky tenor pierced all the protective layers of my uniform, gliding down my skin like black velvet. “…Aristotle thought octopuses were dumb? Do you take it as a personal offense?”
Silence.
I’d frozen in place, replaying the past two periods, wondering what had given my identity away.
Zachary Sun being Zachary Sun, he didn’t let me bask in the unknown for long.
“Even behind a mask, your poker face is as mediocre as your Go skills.” His gaze tangled with mine so easily, I almost forgot that I still wore a mask. “You looked like you were sitting on a carpet of needles. Out of place and out of sorts. Quite different from my usual teacher.”
I peeled my mask back, staring down at him with a sneer.
Unruly blonde locks cascaded past my waist, bracketing my entire body. Sweat glistened on my skin.
Our eyes locked. I couldn’t stare this man down without my body humming the angry beat of a heavy metal song.
Being in constant forced proximity to him would be a problem. My body ran too hot near this man.
“So, this is how you found out about the soirée.” He tipped his head back, allowing my blade to run over the curve of his forehead and nose with the faintest touch. Adrenaline stormed through my veins. He was playing with fire. “I mentioned it in passing to you during one of our sessions.”
I didn’t respond.
Per usual, he already had it all figured out.
He assessed me with critical eyes. “You really aren’t one of them, are you?”
“One of whom?”
“Them. People. Average. Simple. Dumb.”
I said nothing.
“My, my. I’m going to have so much fun with you.” A slow smile spread across his lips. So faint. He was incredibly stingy with his happiness. “My own shiny toy. To enjoy. To abuse. To break.”
The gravity of my mistake rolled through me.
I’d miscalculated.
Made a wrong turn somewhere.
I shouldn’t have agreed to work for him. To put myself in his vicinity on purpose.
To my horror, I did the very thing I’d once accused him of doing. I abandoned a game. Retreated to the lockers to lick my wounds and regroup.
His dark chuckle followed me as I vanished, slinking into the shadows of the hallway, leaving him on the piste to soak in his victory.
Zachary Sun didn’t bother to get up.
He knew he was already at the top.
