The knife feels heavier than it looks.
Cold metal presses into my palm, unfamiliar and terrifying. My fingers curl around the handle like I'm afraid it might bite me back.
"I don't know how," I admit quietly.
Dante doesn't move. He watches me with the patience of a predator who already knows how this ends.
"Everyone knows how," he says. "They just don't know they do."
I swallow. "I don't want to hurt you."
"That's your first mistake."
He steps closer.
Too close.
My back hits the edge of the desk, and suddenly there's nowhere left to retreat. His presence fills the room—heat, control, danger wrapped in calm.
"Rule number one of survival," Dante says. "You don't wait to be willing."
He reaches for my wrist.
Instinct takes over.
I gasp and swing the knife clumsily toward his chest.
He catches my wrist mid-motion.
Effortlessly.
In one smooth movement, he twists my arm just enough that the blade turns away from him—and toward me. Not touching. Just close enough to make the point.
My heart slams violently against my ribs.
"You hesitate," he says quietly. "You telegraph your fear. And you aim where you've been taught not to."
His other hand comes up, hovering at my waist—but stopping short. Always stopping short.
"You never go for the chest first," he continues. "Too much bone. Too much resistance."
He guides my wrist—not forcing, just directing—lower.
"Soft tissue," he murmurs. "Throat. Inner thigh. Under the ribs."
My breath comes shallow.
"You're not fighting fair," I whisper.
Dante's mouth curves slightly.
"Good," he says. "Neither will they."
He releases my wrist suddenly.
I stumble back, startled.
"Again," he orders.
This time, I don't wait.
I step forward and aim for his neck.
He blocks me, spins me, and suddenly I'm pinned—knife trapped between our bodies, his arm braced beside my head against the wall.
He's breathing harder now.
So am I.
"Better," he says, low. "But you're still thinking."
"I don't want to kill anyone," I say, my voice breaking.
Dante's gaze softens—just a fraction.
"You don't have to want it," he says. "You just have to be ready."
He lifts his hand slowly.
"Drop the knife."
I hesitate.
"Now."
I let it fall. It clatters to the floor between us.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
The silence is thick. Charged. Dangerous.
Then Dante steps back.
"You learn fast," he says. "That's good."
"For what?" I ask.
"For staying alive."
He turns away, walking back toward the desk like nothing just happened.
"You broke a rule today," he continues calmly. "You went where you weren't allowed."
My stomach tightens. "Am I in trouble?"
He pauses.
"Yes."
My pulse spikes.
"But not for that," he adds.
He turns to face me again.
"You hesitated," Dante says. "And hesitation gets people killed."
He walks past me toward the door.
"Tomorrow," he says over his shoulder, "you eat."
Relief hits me so hard my knees almost give out.
"And tomorrow," he continues, "your lessons get harder."
The door opens.
"Oh—and Nyla?"
I look up.
"If anyone ever forces you to pick up a blade again," he says quietly, "make sure you finish what you start."
Then he's gone.
I sink slowly to the floor, heart racing, fingers still tingling where his had guided mine.
I don't know when survival turned into something else.
But I know this—
Dante Russo isn't teaching me how to kill.
He's teaching me how to become dangerous.
And I'm not sure who that scares more.
Him…
or me.