Double Agent

○ eleven ○

The next few days, I spar with Anna in the training room. Ezra demanded that I learn to defend myself properly because we'll be in constant danger at all times and he doesn't want me dying when I'm needed on missions for information. If he needs me to decipher my family so badly then it's obvious he's keeping tabs on them at all times. He must think they're closer than expected.

It's infuriating sparring with her because obviously, she's good. Back home I learnt to kill, so I never worried about footwork, or even honour for that matter. I aimed to kill, not play fight with my friends.

She knocks me down for the upteenth time. I breathe a sigh out and watch my breath condense against the mat. My body aches and stings in places where she's managed to nick me. I almost don't get up.

Almost.

Sluggishly, I rise from the mat and steady myself in fighting stance. We're supposed to spar for an hour every day, but she allows me to stop whenever I want to. I refuse to be a wuss, so every time I get knocked down I force myself to get back up. I learn her moves quick enough, analysing how she puts her foot behind my leg to trip me up, or how she catches me by surprise by breaking her fighting pattern.

The sports set I'm wearing consists of a black sports bra and biker shorts that don't collect sweat and make it comfortable to move. It is figure hugging and makes me too self-conscious to admit but serves its purpose.

In the heat of the spar I let my thoughts drift to my home. I wonder if Miranda and Belize are doing okay. Are they safe? My presence, no matter how unfair, always guaranteed the safety of the people I was with. Nobody wanted me to lash out. I just hope the rest of the servant girls are being treated okay... paid on time. I can't tell if I miss my family or not. Do I? I can't be. Everything I loved was gone. Maybe I missed the familiarity of the house. Some of the people there I could consider family. Like Lucienne, who does the dusting every day and the priceless job of teaching the servant girls. I hope she's okay.

Anna hits me in the jaw. My legs buckle and I sink to my knees, my muscles groaning in pain. My core hurts and my head aches from the high ponytail it was put in.

I look up to see Anna smiling down at me.

"An hour's up. You did good today."

I give her a half-assed smile and drop forwards to rest a cheek against the cool foam. I do feel beat, tired, maybe sad. I miss something, but I don't know what. I don't have a sense of purpose here, or even a future. I just have a job and the will to not get killed. I don't have a home.

I turn to the side and my eyes collide with a smooth bare back.

Rigged with toned muscles, the man rolls his shoulders and cracks his head from side to side. His hair is disheveled, messy and sweaty. He goes at a punching bag, hitting it over and over again, strokes consistent and powerful. The muscles in his arm strain and pull taut. There is white tape over his knuckles, but it's now powdered grey. The bag swings violently, but the man seems unfazed. I can't see his face, but I can feel the rage, the power.

Just before the realisation clicks, the man turns around in irritation, messing his hair up aggressively with his hands, breathing hard. His knuckles are red and inflamed, the white cloth now a dull grey. He catches the bag that comes flying towards him with one hand, and leaves it to stand. A line of lean but toned muscles run down his abdomen, supported by strong broad shoulders. The muscles of his thigh flex below a pair of basketball shorts, and he puts his hand on his neck to work at a knot, staring up at the ceiling and breathing heavily.

Holy shit.

It's Ezra.

I blanch and drop my head back into the mat. I don't think he's seen me. This image of him is so different from the prim and proper suits he wears all the time. I sure as hell didn't expect him to look like a God. What a paradox, he acts like the son of Satan.