God of Vengeance : Vaughn x OC

CHAPTER 2 : KATERINA

KATERINA

The punch snaps my head back with such force that my teeth rattle.

The impact reverberates through my skull. The metallic taste of copper fills my mouth, and as my vision clears, his frown comes into focus like a photograph in a developing tray.

"You've gotten slow, Katya," Kyle says, his voice a low, disapproving rumble.

I roll my eyes. "It was one punch. Don't get cocky."

"Three," he corrects, just as my uppercut catches him beneath the chin. His grunt of surprise is music to my ears.

"You were saying?" I retort, my fist driving into his stomach with a precise, calculated force.

The adrenaline surges through my veins, a heady rush that sharpens my senses. Kyle, to his credit, barely flinches, his body absorbing the blow with a resilience that would have felled a lesser man.

He pauses, just for a moment, before shaking off the impact with a determined glint in his blue eyes.

He's taller than me, but he's not too broad like Flame and Viper. His body, while muscular, is lean, fit, and agile, allowing him to move silently like a panther. It's impossible to hear his movements unless he makes himself noticeable. Which makes him a rather formidable adversary.

"You seem upset," I say, dodging his swift left hook with a sidestep that leaves only millimetres to spare. The movement sends a sharp pang through the wound in my shoulder, but I ignore it. "Bad day at work?"

"Something like that," he mutters, his voice tight, his eyes avoiding mine. It's unlike him, and the unspoken tension in his form prickles at my mind.

Sweat trickles down my forehead, mingling with the salt and grime already coating my skin. My black cropped long-sleeve top clings to me, soaked through with exertion, and my dark green leggings feel like a second skin. The dim lighting of the training room casts long shadows across the walls, the scent of sweat and metal a constant reminder of the countless hours of pain and perseverance spent here.

Feigning left, I pivot sharply, executing a manoeuvre that sweeps Kyle off his feet. He crashes to the mat with a resounding thud.

Smirking, I extend a hand to him. "You should start letting someone younger handle my training. You're getting a little old for me to break your bones."

He scoffs, gripping my hand and pulling himself up. "As if, punk."

Before I can retort, the door to the training room creaks open. A hush falls over the space, the tension thickening like a fog as the Godfather strides in. His expression is stone-cold, his mouth a thin, unyielding line. His large frame fills the doorway, his dark suit impeccably tailored to his broad shoulders. Brown hair, streaked with silver, is slicked back.

Others in the room give him a wide berth, bowing their heads as he passes. He stops before the ring, leaning against a pillar in a posture that is deceptively relaxed, yet ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

I crack my neck, peeling off my gloves and letting them fall to the ground with a soft thud. The air feels heavier, the atmosphere charged with an unspoken intensity.

I step out of the ring, feeling Kyle's presence just behind me as we approach the Godfather. His polished black shoes gleam in the harsh lighting, starkly contrasting the worn mats beneath our feet.

He wastes no time. "What the fuck were you thinking, punk?" His voice is a low growl, the words laced with a barely restrained fury.

Ah, that makes sense. I had a feeling he'd be pissed about the public spectacle I caused on my last mission, but I didn't expect him to show up so soon. My Godfather might be in his sixties, but his presence is as commanding as ever, like when I was six years old and clung to him like a lifeline.