Marry or Kill

39

M I N A

Noah throws his fist my way, and I hold my breath as he circles me, tension radiating like a scorching breeze. I manage to duck just in time, the heat of his punch grazing my forehead. Closing the distance, I stomp my foot on his knee, feeling a hint of triumph as it buckles a bit.

However, any celebration is short-lived. A subdued hiss escapes him, and before I know it, a swift punch crashes into my waist, knocking the wind out of me. I clench my teeth, countering his relentless attacks one after another.

The struggle intensifies, and sweat rolls down my forehead, tracing a path to my lip.

Noah raises his foot, aiming for my stomach and frustration bubbles within me. Instinctively, I twist my body, countering with an elbow aimed at his midsection.

The impact reverberates through my arm, but a sinking realisation sets in – it was a mistake.

Before I can fully grasp the situation, Noah's arm wraps around my waist, his strength overpowering mine. With a forceful motion, he hurls me onto the floor. The impact steals the wind from my stomach, leaving me gasping for breath.

My head throbs with dizziness.

As I lay there, vulnerable, I watch the tiled ceiling of the room, its patterns blurring as Noah's foot presses against my stomach. It's a subtle but unmistakable gesture of his triumph. I let out a heavy sigh, my head sinking into the mattress, the strands of my hair clinging to my damp forehead.

"I'm exhausted. It feels like you always come out on top, and I'm constantly ending up on the losing side," I mumble, my voice carrying the weight of defeat.

Noah's brown eyes crinkle with amusement as he looks down at me. "That's too bad," he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Up for another round?"

With effort, I shrug his boot off my stomach and push myself up onto my feet. "Absolutely not. I can't handle another blow to my stomach; it might make me sick."

Noah lingers behind me, his presence urging me on. "How about practising specific positions, like the one Atticus had you in?"

I whip my head over my shoulder, meeting his gaze with frustration. "I've gone through that a million times."

Noah narrows his eyes at the back of my head. "More like five times," he corrects me blandly.

"Enough with the drilling, okay? I've had my fill for today, and that scenario still haunts my nightmares," I explain, the memories of our practice sessions still vivid in my mind.

Atticus still manages to disrupt my sleep, though not as frequently as before. It's like I'm submerged underwater whenever I glimpse his piercing blue eyes, the memory of his hands closing around my throat resurfacing. I shake the thoughts away, willing them to dissipate.

"Elias is always a sore loser; he hardly trains with me anymore. The other guards are no better – all bad sports," Noah remarks casually, his eyes scanning the room.

I swallow down the cold water, the liquid offering a brief respite from the intensity of our training. "Well, that's not my problem. We've been at it for three hours straight—are you not tired?" I ask.

"A real fight might endure that long, so it's crucial for preparation," he reasons, his determination unwavering.

I roll my eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling in my bones. "With guns involved, it definitely won't drag on that long."

Noah takes a long gulp of water, breaking the three-hour drought, his drinking echoing in the silence of the room. I almost burst into laughter at the sound. Eventually, he sets the bottle down with a heavy exhale.