I hit the blue mat hard enough to rattle my teeth. The impact forces the air from my lungs in a sharp, pained wheeze.
"Dead," Stavros announces from above me.
I groan, rolling onto my side. My ribs ache. My arms are shaking from an hour of brutal drills. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring the harsh overhead lights of the fortress gym.
"Get up," he commands.
He doesn't offer a hand. He stands in the center of the training ring, barefoot, shirtless, sweat glistening on his scarred chest like oil. He looks like a gladiator who just stepped out of the arena—lethal, calm, and utterly unimpressed by my pain.
"I can't," I gasp, clutching my side. "I need a minute."
"The enemy doesn't give you a minute," he barks. "The enemy doesn't care if you're tired. The enemy cares if you're breathing. Get
