Page 39 of Sold Bratva Wife

“I’m fine,” she snapped, without stopping. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I raised an eyebrow. “No reason. Just checking.”

She was scaring me… a little. Whatever was on her mind was something heavy, because working out clearly wasn’t helping. If she kept up this pace, she could’ve injured her wrist.

“Let’s try something different,” I suggested. “Let’s work on defense, shall we?”

That way, I’d be the one who punched while she took a break.

I grabbed two focus mitts and slipped them on. “I’ll throw some light punches, and you block or dodge. Sound good?”

She shrugged, like she couldn’t care less.

I threw a slow jab toward her shoulder. She slipped it easily, ducking under my arm. I followed with another, which she blocked with her forearm. We established a rhythm—me attacking, her defending.

But I noticed her frustration growing. Her movements became restless, and she breathed hard, but it wasn’t from the fact that she was tired. It looked like she was having an entire conversation in her head, and whatever it was, it pissed the hell out of her.

“You’re holding back,” she accused suddenly, dropping her hands.

“What?”

“You’re not really trying,” she said in anger. “I can barely feel you. I might as well be defending against myself.”

Okay. What the hell was bothering her, exactly? I tried to keep my tone patient. “It’s practice, Alisa. The point is to learn the technique, not get knocked out.”

“How am I supposed to learn if you’re not giving me a real challenge?” she hissed in anger. “I’m not a child, Dante.”

“I know that,” I snapped.God, did I know that.Every inch of this woman was driving me insane. “Fine. You want more of a challenge? Let’s spar. Light contact only.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really.” I removed the mitts and adjusted my hand wraps. “But if I say stop, we stop. Deal?”

She nodded eagerly, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

We touched gloves and began circling each other. I threw a few light jabs, which she blocked or evaded. She countered with her own, most of which I deflected easily. But I had to admit, she was getting good. Her form was clean, her movements confident.

“Not bad,” I said, slipping past a hook. “But you’re looking at your target when you put in your right cross. I can see it coming from a mile away.”

She frowned, then threw another combination—jab-jab-cross. I blocked the first two, then caught her right hand mid-punch, holding it.

“See? You drop your shoulder too, which gives it away.”

She yanked her hand free in frustration. “Then show me how to fix it.”

“Keep your shoulders level until the last moment.” I demonstrated the movement in slow motion.

We continued sparring, and I could feel her getting angrier with each move.

“You’re still holding back,” she accused, breathing hard.

“I’m trying not to hurt you!” I admitted.

“Maybe I don’t mind getting hurt,” she shot back without thinking.

Wait. What the hell did that mean?

Before I could process what she said and consider how to ask what was wrong, she threw a wild right hook.