She nodded, taking a bite of the fish. “He is. Thank you. The seizures have stopped, and they’re monitoring his heart. Good prognosis.”
Cort stood, extending a hand to Nena. She eyed him suspiciously, trying to figure out his plan. Eventually, she gave in, gingerly placing her hand in his and allowing him to pull her to her feet.
He led her through the restaurant to where the music was loudest, where the dance floor writhed with couples dancing to Davido’s “Fall.” He slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her close. She tensed up, then relaxed, allowing him to lead. He began softly singing the lines to the song in her ear.
She pulled back. Cort was full of surprises. And she liked it. He grinned, dropping his head sheepishly. She touched her finger to his chin, pulling him back to face her.
“Don’t stop.”
He moved side to side. She quickly fell in sync with his moves, pleasantly surprised his dancing differed vastly from his grilling techniques. Her body fell in line with his, and soon the music, the heat, the lights, the aromas, fused into a headiness that made Nena feel light headed. Was this what dating was like? Because when she saw the way Cort looked at her, it made her stomach somersault and the area she’d thought long dead come alive.
He lifted her arm above her head, twirling her slowly, and when she had revolved entirely and was facing him again, her eyes connected with his.
The music pounded in her ears. The way he looked at her—she swallowed. Why was he looking at her like that?
She fought rising panic. Her first impulse was to make space between them to stop him from touching her like that. But she found she wanted his touch.
And . . . she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to . . . maybe even more than that.
No, no, she couldn’t. She’d never wanted that, not since they’d snatched her virginity from her, desecrating her. But her feelings were becoming undeniable to her now. She had fallen hard for him, even though it was impossible. He put away people like her. She dispatched people like him.
Her body tensed when he slipped his arm around her waist to slowly pull her in. He stopped when she hesitated, then pulled her the rest of the way when she allowed it. She stepped all the way in. Into his arms.
The dance music switched to Lianne La Havas’s “Don’t Wake Me Up.”
“Love this song,” Nena said softly. She swayed to its beat, surprised she was feeling this comfortable. She let the soulful song, let being with Cort, take her to a place of peace she’d never known could exist for a person like her.
And then she thought, Why not me?
58
BEFORE
I keep going during the rigorous conditioning portion of my initial training, even when my body screams it cannot move another inch. But after a few weeks I must be conditioned enough, because while I’m at the table, lacing up my combat boots, Witt slides a picture of Monsieur into my line of vision. I look at it without saying a word; then my gaze flicks up to his.
“Show me how you did it,” he says.
I drop my head back down to finish lacing. How can I reenact something that is not the same? I am without the primal drive to survive I had then. Why does Witt want me to relive that horror? Why is he not teaching me something new? He taps the picture sharply, and my head snaps up to him.
“Show me,” he says. “Count off.”
What is his end goal? Is he trying to break me, or can he not believe a scrawny thing like me can take down a being like Robach? But he wants to see, and I acquiesce.
We stand, facing each other. Robach and I weren’t standing when I attacked him, and I must bring Witt down to where I can do what I did. I cannot tell him to have a seat so I can stab him, can I? Instinct takes over, and my right foot swipes Witt’s from beneath him. He falls with a surprised grunt to the floor, and I lock away the sliver of worry that I might hurt him. I grab a pen that has rolled from atop the table. I feign a stab to his cheek.
“One,” I say.
I jump on top of Witt, who bucks me off and rolls. When my body hits the floor, I roll fluidly, scamper to my hands and knees, and spring up, jumping on his back as I did with Monsieur.
“Two.”
I cling to Witt’s back as he tries to shake me off. He rears backward, smashing us against a wall. Pen in hand, I tap it against his neck.
“Three.”
And his throat. “Four.”
And his chest. “Five.”
Witt tumbles to the floor, and I continue tapping him in the same places I stabbed Monsieur, counting while I do it. When I reach 150, I stop. My hand drops to my side, and I lift myself off my instructor. I stand back, panting, waiting for him to tell me what is next.