Page 1 of Deadly Legacy (The House of Matvei #3)

P ain bloomed across Reuben’s cheek as his back slammed against the training mat. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but he rolled to his feet, muscles remembering rather than thinking.

“You telegraph your moves with your eyes.” Stepan circled him, broad shoulders relaxed, barely winded despite two hours of training. “Again.”

Reuben sucked in a breath, tasting metal. Eight months of this, and Stepan still made him feel like he’d learned nothing. Yet the bruises mapping his body told a different story.

Reuben wiped sweat from his forehead, while the leather and disinfectant smell of the gym filled his nostrils. His body ached in places he’d never known existed before. Still, every bruise was a badge of honor as to how much progress he’d made.

“You’re thinking too much.” Stepan’s slight Russian accent thickened with irritation. “Your opponent won’t give you time to consider your options.”

A memory flashed; Andrey’s gun pressed against his head, the cold metal imprinting fear into his skin, the utter helplessness as he’d stood there, useless, waiting for someone else to save him.

Reuben’s jaw tightened. Never again.

He lunged forward, feinting left before executing the takedown, his shoulder connecting with Stepan’s midsection. For a heartbeat, he felt the larger man’s balance shift.

Then the world spun, and Reuben’s back hit the mat again.

But this time, Stepan’s ever-present stern expression softened. “Better.”

However, the word barely registered through the ringing in Reuben’s ears. He blinked, the gym ceiling swimming into focus as he lay flat on his back on the training mat.

“Now get up.” Stepan loomed over him, disappointment already beginning to etch back into the lines around his eyes. “Your opponent won’t wait for you to recover.”

Reuben rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his knees. His ribs protested, a dull throb where Stepan’s last strike had landed. He rose to his feet, unsteady but determined.

“Now, what did you do wrong?” Stepan asked, circling him like a wolf assessing wounded prey.

Reuben wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I dropped my guard.”

“And?”

“I moved backward instead of to the side.” The mistake was obvious now.

Stepan nodded once. “Again.”

Eight months ago, Reuben would have asked for a break. Would have needed one. However, his body had changed since then, hardened by constant training. His mind had changed, too.

He studied Stepan’s stance, searching for tells. The former Spetsnaz special forces soldier turned head of security for Nikon’s operations was a mountain of a man at six foot three inches tall, with scars drawing stories of violence across his hands and forearms.

When Nikon had assigned Stepan to train Reuben after the Andrey incident, their relationship had evolved from stoic protector and reluctant charge to something resembling mentor and student. Although Stepan’s methods remained brutally effective rather than gentle.

He settled into his stance, fists raised, eyes locked on Stepan’s. This time, when the attack came, Reuben was ready.

His body moved on instinct, side-stepping Stepan’s lunge, catching the larger man’s arm, using the momentum to execute the takedown they’d been drilling for weeks.

And for one glorious moment, Stepan was airborne. The impact when he hit the mat reverberated through the gym.

Stepan lay still for a heartbeat, then his face shifted. A momentary break in his impassive mask. It was not quite approval but the absence of criticism, which from Stepan was practically a standing ovation.

“Water break. Two minutes.”

Grabbing his towel, Reuben dragged it across his sweat-drenched face. His legs almost buckled as he made his way to the water cooler, where he gulped down the cool liquid that offered blessed relief to his burning throat.

The private gym in the Matvei compound had become as familiar to him as his old university library once was. Boxing equipment lined one wall, weights another. Security cameras monitored every angle—a necessary precaution in Nikon’s world.

Reuben caught his reflection in the mirrored wall.

The academic poker player from two years ago—soft around the edges, almost easy to dismiss—had vanished.

The man staring back had sharper angles and hardened muscle where there had once been softness.

There were bruises in various stages of healing mapping their way across his torso and arms (purple fading to green fading to yellow), a living record of the personal cage fighting lessons he’d been getting from Stepan.

Lifting his shirt, Reuben displayed the vivid purple bruise spreading across his ribs. “So, I see we’re going for the complete rainbow collection,” a touch of sarcasm colored his words. “Yesterday was just the warm-up, apparently.”

“You were too slow to react.” Stepan took a swig from his own water bottle. “But today you are better.”

The gym door opened with a whisper of metal hinges.

Reuben felt the shift before he heard it; a change in the room’s atmosphere, in the way the security personnel along the wall straightened their spines a fraction taller.

His pulse quickened without permission as Nikon’s presence filled the gym, commanding attention without a single word.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” The voice resonated through the space, each word measured and unhurried. Nikon’s slight Russian accent, barely detectable after years in America, colored the edges of his speech.

Heat crawled up Reuben’s neck despite his best efforts to remain composed. Two years since they’d first met, over a year since they’d become an official couple, and still Nikon’s mere presence sent electricity through his body. Reuben kept his eyes on Stepan, refusing to be distracted.

“We were just resuming, Sir.” Stepan nodded toward the center of the mat. “Reuben. Show him the counter we practiced yesterday.”

Reuben squared his shoulders, hyperaware of Nikon leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his broad chest. The weight of those blue eyes on him no longer made him nervous—instead, it sharpened his focus.

Stepan lunged. Reuben sidestepped, caught the arm, but this time he anticipated the counter. When Stepan shifted his weight to reverse the takedown, Reuben was ready. He adjusted his stance, maintained his grip, and completed the throw.

For the second time that day, Stepan hit the mat.

The silence that followed held a different quality than before. Reuben risked a glance toward the door.

Nikon still leaned against the doorframe, but now his blue eyes tracked Reuben’s movements with the intensity of a man who missed nothing.

The subtle curve of his lips paired with an almost imperceptible nod—that private expression of approval reserved only for moments like this—sent warmth cascading through Reuben’s chest as he returned Nikon’s small smile with a grin.

Stepan rose to his feet in one fluid motion. “Your technique improves. But remember—”

“In a real fight, my opponent won’t be cooperative.” Reuben finished the familiar refrain, earning a rare nod from the security chief.

A chime cut through the air, high and insistent. It was Nikon’s phone.

The transformation on Nikon’s face was immediate. The smile vanished from his lips as his hand went to his pocket, his face slipping behind the rigid mask Reuben recognized as his business face.

With a quick nod toward Reuben, Nikon turned and slipped out into the hallway.

Reuben cataloged the shift with the same attention he once gave to poker tells. After all this time, he’d learned to read the subtle language of Nikon’s body. Whatever the call was about, it didn’t seem to be good.

Through the partially open door, Reuben caught fragments of conversation, Nikon’s voice dropping to that low, clipped tone he used only for serious matters. Words like “verify” and “immediately” drifted back into the gym.

“Focus.” Stepan snapped his fingers before Reuben’s face. “Your enemies will use any distraction.”

They resumed training, but Reuben’s attention was split. Even as he blocked Stepan’s strikes, part of him strained to catch fragments of Nikon’s conversation beyond the doorway.

Nikon returned to the gym, his expression now coldly professional; the earlier pride and affection stored away like weapons too dangerous to display.

“You need to finish up for today.” Nikon’s eyes met Reuben’s, conveying what his words didn’t. “Something’s come up at Matthew Capital.”

Stepan nodded without question. “Cool down properly.” He tossed Reuben a towel. “We can continue our training tomorrow.”

The locker room routine was quick and practiced; sweat-soaked clothes discarded, followed by a three-minute shower that rinsed away the gym sweat if not the deep muscle ache.

Nikon was waiting when Reuben emerged from the shower. Dressed in a tailored suit that still seemed pristine despite the summer heat, there was not a wrinkle visible on Nikon’s suit jacket, nor a hair out of place. This was even despite the July heat that had half the city melting onto sidewalks.

Nikon’s gaze swept over Reuben’s half-naked towel-wrapped body, the clinical assessment of injuries softening into something warmer... the look of a man who loved every firm muscled contour he was examining.

“New bruise.” Nikon’s voice softened as he stepped closer, leaning in to press a gentle kiss against Reuben’s shoulder. His fingers traced a pleasant trail up Reuben’s chest, hovering over the discoloration on his ribs. “I should talk to Stepan about holding back.”

Reuben smiled, capturing Nikon’s hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “Don’t you dare. I earned this one.” He reached for his shirt off the hanger and slipped it on, his eyes never leaving Nikon’s. “Now tell me what pulled you away from watching me get thrown around the mat.”

“Alexei called. There’s a situation with Quantize Guard.”