Chapter 3 Blades and Breakfast

The morning sun filters through the barred windows, painting five golden stripes across the worn floorboards of my bedroom.

I trace them with my bare toes, counting each one like a lifeline-five perfect lines of warmth in a world that's always felt cold.

The knife under my pillow hasn't moved. I know because I've checked twelve times since waking, my fingers brushing the bone handle, its weight a quiet promise against the ghosts of St. Cecilia's that still haunt my dreams.

The blade is my anchor, a reminder that I'm not locked in that closet anymore, even if my heart sometimes forgets.

A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts. It's not the angry, bone-rattling banging of the orphanage matrons, demanding chores or silence.

This is crisp, polite, almost mocking in its precision. My pulse quickens, but I force my voice steady.

"Come in," I say, as if I have a choice in this strange new world.

Asher enters, balancing a tray with one hand, his movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator playing at being tame.

The smell hits me first-rich butter, warm cinnamon, and something sweet that makes my mouth water despite myself. Pancakes. Actual pancakes, golden and fluffy, stacked high with a drizzle of syrup and a scattering of blueberries.

Not the burnt, gritty scraps I used to fight the other girls for, my knuckles bloody for a single bite.

"You'll float away if you keep staring at it like that," Asher says, setting the tray on my lap with a flourish. His voice is low, teasing, but his pale blue eyes-sharp as the Arctic ice they resemble-watch me closely, catching every flicker of my expression.

I poke the top pancake with a cautious finger. It springs back, soft and perfect, like something out of a dream. My stomach twists, half with hunger, half with suspicion. "Is this a test?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Asher steals a blueberry from my plate, popping it into his mouth with a grin that's equal parts charm and danger. "Everything's a test, little ghost," he says, leaning against the bedpost. "But today's is simple-eat or don't."

I cut a small piece, the knife slicing through the pancake with embarrassing ease. The syrup glistens, catching the sunlight, and when I take a cautious bite, the sweetness explodes on my tongue, overwhelming and foreign.

My stomach, unaccustomed to anything but stale bread and thin broth, clenches in protest. I chew slowly, forcing myself to swallow, but the richness is too much, too fast.

Asher watches the war play out on my face, his amusement softening the sharp angles of his scarred features. "They're not laced with arsenic, if that's what you're-"

I don't hear the rest. My stomach rebels, and before I can stop it, I lean forward and vomit onto his polished black shoes. The tray clatters to the floor, syrup smearing across the boards.

Silence stretches, heavy and mortifying. I brace myself for anger, for the kind of punishment I'd have earned at St. Cecilia's-a slap, a night in the cellar, or worse.

Instead, Asher chuckles, deep and unfazed, the sound rolling through the room like distant thunder. "Well," he says, shaking his head, "that's one way to reject breakfast."

His handkerchief appears from his coat pocket-crisp white linen, monogrammed AV, already stained with my bile.

When I don't take it, frozen in shame, he sighs softly and kneels in front of me. His touch is gentle as he wipes my chin, his fingers lingering near the jagged scar there, the one Anna carved last winter with her rusted hairpin.

His thumb brushes the mark, and for a moment, his eyes darken, not with anger but with something heavier-something I can't name.

"Lesson time," he declares, standing and steering me toward the door before I can protest. His hand on my shoulder is firm but not cruel, guiding me out of the room. "We'll try food again later. Maybe something less... ambitious."

The training room is a cavernous space, its air thick with the smells of sweat, gun oil, and polished steel. Weapons line the walls, their blades and barrels gleaming under harsh artificial lights that buzz faintly overhead.

Knives, pistols, even a wicked-looking machete-each one meticulously arranged, like a museum of violence.

The floor is scuffed concrete, stained with years of blood and effort, and in the center stands a wooden dummy, its surface pocked with scars from countless blades.

Asher selects a knife from the wall-not one of the terrifying curved ones that look like they could gut a man in a single stroke, but a simple chef's blade, its edge glinting with quiet menace. He turns to me, his expression unreadable.

"Hold out your hands," he says.

I hesitate, then obey, my palms trembling slightly. He places the knife's handle in my grip, and it's heavier than I expected, the metal cold against my skin. The weight feels wrong, like holding someone else's heart.

"Most people," Asher says, stepping closer, "think knives are for stabbing." His breath tickles my ear as he adjusts my grip, his gloved fingers precise and warm. "They're wrong."

With a flick of his wrist, his own knife-a sleek, deadly thing-flies from his hand and embeds itself in the wooden dummy across the room.

An apple balanced on its head splits cleanly in half, the pieces tumbling to the floor with a soft thud. The blade quivers in the dummy's chest, perfectly centered.

I blink, my mouth dry. "Showoff."

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Your turn."

My first throw is a disaster. The knife slips from my fingers, clattering to the concrete with a sound that makes me wince.

The second hits the dummy's shoulder, a glancing blow that barely sticks. The third? It sails past the dummy entirely, embedding itself in the wall with a humiliating twang. If the dummy had feelings, it'd be laughing at me.

Asher leans against the wall, arms crossed, his black coat blending into the shadows. "You're thinking too hard," he says, his voice calm but edged with challenge.

"I'm thinking about stabbing you," I mutter, glaring at the dummy as if it's personally offended me.

This earns a real laugh, the kind that crinkles the corners of his icy eyes and softens the scar cutting through his eyebrow. "That's the spirit," he says, pushing off the wall. "But first-" He moves behind me, his chest brushing my back as he guides my arm. "-you have to learn how to miss properly."

His hand covers mine, steadying my grip. His touch is warm, even through his glove, and I'm hyper-aware of his presence-the faint scent of gunpowder and cologne, the quiet strength in his frame. Together, we throw. The knife spins through the air, a silver blur, and-

THUNK.

It lands dead center in the dummy's forehead, the blade buried to the hilt.

Asher steps back, his expression smug but not unkind. "See? Even you can't mess up with me helping."

I scowl, shoving a strand of hair out of my face. "Do it again."

"Demanding little thing, aren't you?" he says, but there's a spark of approval in his eyes as he reaches for another knife.

We spend hours like this, the rhythm of our throws punctuated by his quiet instructions and my occasional muttered curses.

My arms ache, my fingers blistering from the unfamiliar weight of the knives, but my throws improve. One clips the dummy's ear, another grazes its throat.

When Mira, a wiry woman with a scar across her knuckles, brings sandwiches-simple ones, with soft bread and thin slices of chicken-I manage to eat without retching.

Asher even laughs, a low, warm sound, when I accidentally knock his favorite dagger off the wall with a poorly aimed throw. It clatters to the floor, and he shakes his head, mock-exasperated.

It's almost... nice. A fragile kind of normalcy I haven't felt since I was too young to know better. For a moment, I let myself imagine this could be my life-training, eating, maybe even laughing, with someone who doesn't want to break me.

Until the door bursts open.

A man stumbles in, his face a mess of blood and bruises, one hand clutching his side. "Boss-the Italians-they're-" His words cut off in a wet cough, blood flecking his lips.

Asher's smile dies, his face hardening into something cold and unrecognizable. The warmth in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a predator's focus. He doesn't look at me as he says, "Lesson's over."

But as he strides toward the door, his coat flaring behind him, he tosses one last instruction over his shoulder: "Practice your grip. I'm testing you tomorrow."

The door clicks shut, leaving me alone in the training room. The apple halves lie on the floor, their flesh browning in the air. The dummy stares at me, its wooden face indifferent to my trembling hands.

I pick up a knife, the handle still warm from Asher's touch. The weight feels different now-less foreign, more like an extension of myself. I turn to the dummy, my jaw tight, and raise the blade.

The Italians, whoever they are, have shattered the fragile peace of this moment. But Asher's world, this house of blood and steel, is my world now. And if I'm going to survive it, I need to be more than the girl who hid in a closet.

I throw the knife. It spins, imperfect but determined, and buries itself in the dummy's chest.

I retrieve it and throw it again