Dirty Blood
“Keep your foot flat, leg straight. That’s it,” said Jack.
I breathed in, making sure to balance myself correctly, and then kicked hard against the pad in Jack’s hand. His wrist barely budged from the hit, though I felt the vibrating impact all the way to my knee.
“Better,” he said.
I blew out a breath. “Whatever,” I grumbled. I was frustrated at my lack of progress.
Jack either didn’t hear or, most likely, pretended not to. “Again.”
My brow lifted. “Seriously?”
“Again,” Jack repeated firmly.
“Jack, I’m done. I’m out of breath and energy and our time’s up.”
Jack didn’t bother checking his watch. “We’ve got five more minutes. And I’m in charge, not you. So I say when you’re done. Besides, do you think your enemy is just going to stop attacking to let you catch your breath? Push through. Again.”
I glared at him but fell into a fighter’s stance anyway. I balanced and then kicked out, almost missing the pad completely this time.
Jack gave me a scolding look.
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