Lesson Two

"So am I learning physical combat tonight or how to time block my daily schedule?" I asked. It was an hour past nine now. I was laying near the edge of Logan's bed, listening as his pen furiously scribbled in his planner.

"For the fourth time, I can't just start throwing punches at you without having a lesson plan."

"Why not?" You did it last night."

"Last night was an assessment," sighed Logan. "Now that I know where your skill level is at, I should be able to formulate a timeline of progression points. But I can't."

My interpretation of that was: "Because I don't have any skill?"

"No." Logan turned around, straddling his chair, his arms folded atop the back post. "See, the mandatory lesson plan for all recruits is: footwork, defense, then combat. That way, by the time you reach combat, you'll have mastered footwork and defense to the point where it's second nature. It cuts down on the mental work and also boosts your combat skills since combat requires strong defense and agility. But . . ."

He pointed his pen at me. "You . . . are problematic."

"Aw. Thank you."

Logan ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry--"

Somehow, I doubted that.

"What I meant was: your lifestyle is problematic. You don't exist in a controlled environment. Typically, recruits are provided a dorm in one of CSD's buildings and they stay there until they're certified for field duty. But I can't exactly lock you up in a dorm, can I?"

"Actually, I'm sure my mother will give you the key to my room if you say the words: 'for Park's safety.'"

"There's the Whitepine wedding," muttered Logan, clearly not listening to me. "And the dress fitting before that. There's also the possibility your presence might be requested now that the kingdom knows you're back."

"If the wedding is in three weeks, can't you tailor the lesson plan to that?"

Logan shot me a look that said don't-you-think-I've-already-thought-of-that? "It's still too unpredictable. Say I followed the timeline but all of a sudden, you're called out to a press conference by the end of this week. All you'll know how to do is move your feet. What good is that going to do?"

For a guy who was so staunchly against this from the get-go, he was really giving it his all now.

I rolled over, moving my sight from the gray canopy overhead to his face. "Then what about training like we did last night? A combination of all three."

Logan made a scathing noise that shot down my idea. "You'll be in a coma by the third day." 

He must be wonderful in group projects.

Sighing, I got off the bed to walk over to his desk. Sprawled over the wooden surface were planner pages ripped out from their spiral bindings. Timelines were scratched out over and over in black ink. His neat handwriting filled up the margins with calculations of my projected progress and all the possible hypotheticals that could spawn from one mistake.

"What a perfectionist," I mused.

"Why did that sound derogatory?"

I looked to Logan, who was still so focused on fine-tuning the details of everything that he started chewing on the end of his pen. He was normally so obnoxiously confident about his work. I wonder what shook his nerves so much. 

I mean, I guess I'd be a little nervous too if someone's life was in my hands. 

"Logan," I said. "I trust you. Whatever happens, I know you'll work it out. And it's not like lesson plans are set in stone. If anything changes, we can always cram the night before like it's exam week."

Logan looked positively insulted. "I never cram for exams," he stated proudly. "Besides, physical combat isn't something you can cram for. It's--"

"If you don't pick something to do in the next five seconds, I'll write an extremely mediocre performance evaluation for your quarterly report."

Logan snorted. "As if anyone would believe I'd get a bad review. Besides, you wouldn't risk losing me as your bodyguard, Sparrow. I'm the only one willing to train you."

"Yeah, that's why I said mediocre." I crossed my arms. "Not enough to get you fired, but enough to get called into the office. Maybe I'll write something along the lines of: 'Agent Cross is unable to tell the difference between client and classmate.' You know, you've refused to address me by my title--"

"Alright, we'll spar tonight!" Logan shot up from his chair. He took a second to collect himself before adding, "Then we'll alternate each day. Tomorrow, it can be footwork or something. At least we can dedicate a good amount of time on each practice area every night. Are you happy?"

"Why are you asking me?" I said. "I'm not the one who couldn't make a lesson plan."

Throwing his old gloves at my face, Logan headed to the gray rug and resumed the same stance from last night. I joined him after doing my best to secure the gloves around my wrist. 

"Before we begin," Logan said, "can you promise me you won't write a bad evaluation?"

I grinned. "What's the magic word, Cross?"

Through gritted teeth, Logan added, almost inaudibly, "Please."

"Please what?"

Oh, I was definitely going to pay for this tonight.

"Please, Your Highness."

* * * 

Lesson Four

"It was one utensil!" I complained. "Just one! I knew how to curtsy before I could talk, but Ilyich is acting like a decade of etiquette training has been lost to the wind."

"Pay attention to the lesson, please," was Logan's initial response as he threw a punch at me. "You also struggled between the main and dessert spoons."

Despite Logan's initial warning that he would leave me black and blue, he hadn't actually laid a hand on me. It was amazing, really. It wasn't even as though he was holding back his punches -- Logan just had exceptional control over the force in his arms. I felt the air split when his fist moved, but his precision kept his knuckles centimeters from my body, as always. 

"Who even needs that many spoons?" I grumbled. "And what, I get some wine glasses confused and now I'm inept at being a princess?" 

"You don't have to move just left or right to doge." Logan paused in his movements. "Duck down, step back, even throw your arms up -- make use of all the muscles in your body if you want to get better at defense." 

Then, Logan resumed treating me like a human punching bag, his arms swinging with masterful speed as I focused on my sole task of avoiding his hands. 

"Personally, I would've never guessed that Alex Finch was Princess Park Sparrow," Logan huffed. "So, I understand why your mother is having you retake etiquette lessons."

"How dare you!" I pretended to gasp, heeding his advice and jumping back just as his fist attacked me from a diagonal angle. "I was the pinnacle of grace and sophistication at the academy!" 

At first, that statement had Logan suspended in hysterics, biting down on his gloves in an attempt to quiet his laughter. But when he briefly glanced at me, his eyes glazed over slightly, his snickering fading away as his arms dropped to his side. Logan's brows crinkled together the way they always did whenever a calculus set took him longer than a minute to solve. 

"What?" I asked, straightening my posture. 

"Nothing, nothing," he said with a dismissive hand. "Arms back up."

"No, no," I refused. "You were laughing about my one-hundred true statement because you didn't believe me, but then you remembered something, didn't you? Something you know would help my legal defense against these lessons."

"I don't think the courts would appreciate you wasting their time -- the way you're wasting mine right now."

When I refused to uncross my arms, Logan gave an exasperated but defeated sigh, his hands wringing the back of his neck. "The start of our sophomore year, I had just come back from Cimeria after sitting in on a noble conference. I saw you sitting in class when I walked in and I was struck by how . . . perfect your posture was. Like your mother's." 

Oh, no. That was a behavior I hadn't thought to fix. 

But I couldn't dwell on it for too long. Taking advantage of my relaxation, Logan dropped to the floor, swing his leg in an arch. Shit! I thought, tumbling backwards as his shoes knocked me off the floor. Before my body hit the ground though, Logan caught me. He always did. 

"Now," he grinned, "for your legal defense, what's the itty-bitty fork for?"

"Oh, fuck off," I said, pushing him off of me. "It's the oyster fork."

* * *

Lesson Seven

"Are we training tonight?" I asked, joining Logan in the hallway. Unlike our usual nine p.m. encounters, it was still only seven tonight. The candles had yet to be lit, so the corridor was instead flooded with the last golden rays of the sun fading behind the mountain range. 

"I didn't even text you," Logan pointed out. He slipped his phone into the pocket of his jeans. "I was just finalizing the details on the security escort for the dress fitting in a few days." 

"Do you ever take a break?" I asked, thinking about the times he'd been stepping out to another room to take half-hour long calls.

"Well, I was really looking forward to my bubble bath but if you insist on training--"

"No, no. Bubble bath away." 

Logan eyeballed the textbook, newspapers, and magazines nestled against my chest. "Don't you have some studying to do tonight anyway?" 

I crinkled my nose. "Well, I was hoping to have a best friend bail me out tonight by scheduling an early training session, but clearly there's no one loyal to me in this palace."

Logan gestured down the hall with a tilt of his head. "Actually, a best friend would offer to help you study so that you're well-prepared for tomorrow's pop quiz with Ilyich." He took the thick textbook into his hands. "There've been a lot of noble births these past few years. God forbid you don't know how to properly address a five-year-old."

Laughing, the two of us headed to the West Library. During the bright hours of the day, Jasper was always spotted at a table tucked away in the corner, stationed right by an arching window. Now, it was only the two of us seated opposite one another, newspapers spread out atop the mahogany surface instead of Jasper's usual textbooks.

"You even have flash cards?" Logan asked, his tone fairly impressed. 

"I am on track to be salutatorian," I pointed out, flipping through the glossy pages of the textbook open until I came across a graphic depiction of the Cimerian peerage system. While I personally felt like just knowing what a monarchy is was enough for a wedding, my instructor, Allana Ilyich, felt it was imperative that I be able to name each and every member within the clans -- including in-laws and fifth cousins removed. 

"Sorry, I'm still coming to terms that the girl who watched Netflix on her laptop during lectures is, well, you," he said, setting down the cards to pick up the most recent edition of The Riveria Report. 

"Like I was the only one doing so," I murmured, diligently assigning each clan their own blank card, remembering Josh's request for me to play Game of Thrones during our classic literature period. 

For the next hour, Logan sat silently in front of me, casually perusing the papers while I jotted down the names and titles of all individuals within the clans, using the papers to note any changes in occupancy, marriage, and education. 

Finally, I set my pen down, flexing my fingers to ease up the cramps just as I finished the Lanclair card. Logan picked up the thin pile between us, flipping through the cards with an irritatingly critical look on on his face. 

"You don't color-code?" Logan remarked. 

"That is a lot of effort towards this wedding that I don't feel like giving," I responded.  "It's only for the lesson with Ilyich tomorrow. It's not like anyone's going to be needling me about this stuff at the reception."

"I don't know about that." Logan flashed the Fell card. "Tell me about the House of Fell then. Just in case." 

And like that, Logan became my tester, quizzing me clan by clan. If I were unsuccessful with my recitation of facts, he'd unhelpfully stare at me until I got the information right. 

"Darkwood," he said after I finally remembered that Vincent Blackewell recently started his own charity. "And stop kicking me."

"Then stop stealing the magazines when I try and look up the answer." Leaning forward in my chair, I then said, "The Duke of Darkwood is deceased, as is the entire clan. Except for . . . Flynn Darkwood -- currently M.I.A. and won't be in attendance. And--" I flipped through the articles. "Wait, no. Alexander Darkwood is also deceased." I set aside the paper detailing his death at a Swedish boarding school.

Logan set the card down. His eyes darkened and he flashed me the next clan: Cross.

"The Viscount of Cross is Leonard Cross, Captain of the National Chamber of Security and Defense. He's married to Catherine Cross, current headmistress of St. Cross' Academy. They have one son: Logan Cross, the worst study buddy in existence." I flashed him a grin, but he didn't set the card down. 

"Really?" I scoffed. "Fine. Logan Cross, successor to the Cross clan. Currently studying at the academy and is employed as an agent of CSD. Better?" 

Logan did set the card down, but instead of moving on, he picked up my pen, using it to scratch out one of the notes on the lined side. 

"Baron," he corrected. "It's Baron of Cross now, not Viscount." 

What drug was he smoking? I reached out for the textbook, flipping it open to an index I'd bookmarked with a torn-up scrap of paper. There. The printed words clearly spelled 'viscount' by the name 'Cross.' I looked to Logan, but he merely reached over and turned to the front pages, quickly identifying the print date and pointing to it. 

"The House of Cross lost rank recently," he explained, suspiciously emotionless. "I think it happened during my father's youth. This textbook was printed in the fifties." Logan plastered a crooked smile on his lips. "This is why you should use the most recent edition instead of older ones, Sparrow." 

A part of me wanted to pry. Another part of me was mentally cursing myself for not remembering such an important title change. While loss of rank was rare, it wasn't unheard of, and when it happened, it was common courtesy not to speak of the demotion in non-political settings for at least a generation. I looked to Logan, ready to apologize, but there was a desperate plea behind his eyes, asking me to move on. 

So, I cleared my throat and took the book back. "Newer edition textbooks are a scam," I said. "They change the font on three pages and charge you an extra two-hundred dollars."

That got him smiling a little more genuinely. As he picked up the cards again, his eyes flashed a silent 'thank you' before he continued quizzing me on the remaining houses. Afterwards, the two of us settled back into our earlier routine -- except Logan was a little more interactive this round.

"No, no," he interrupted, slapping my hand away from the card. "that is not Hunter Kingsley's current wife; you're writing down his third. His current spouse is . . . jeez, how old are these magazines?" 

Logan pulled out his phone, his fingers hammering on the bright screen. A small giggle escaped my lips as imaginary study sessions conjured themselves in my head, the horror he would feel upon seeing the amount of doodles in my notes. Logan blinked, his brow raised quizzically as I composed myself. 

"I was only kidding before," I admitted. "I think it would've been nice to study with you." 

His gaze softened. He hid a part of his smile behind his hand, which was cupping his cheek, his elbow propped on the table. "Well, we have one last year together at the academy, don't we? Let's say, hmm, meet at three p.m. in the library?" 

Weirdly giddy about the idea of returning to Paradise with Logan, all I could do was nod and smile, echoing his words at the end of our first training session in my head. 

* * *

Lesson Thirteen

"Park? Park, are you even listening to me?"

"Huh?" I said, stopping my memories of last night's lesson (targeting an opponent's vital spots). My eyes blinked rapidly, my vision refocusing on the dinner plate before me. I turned to my mother. "Yes, I do think the nobility has been pushing too hard for tax cuts." 

Clearly, that was not what my mother wanted to know. Her cutlery paused above the steak on her plate. "Have you been getting enough sleep?" she asked, her eyes shrewd. "You look a little tired."

"She means you look like shit," Jasper so helpfully translated. 

I flashed my eyes at him. "I've been jet lagged."

"Jetlagged?" Jasper's voice was full of disbelief. "It's been two weeks." 

"I lived on mountain time for three years; it takes a while." I flicked a pea off my plate towards Jasper. 

"Park, it's not ladylike to play with your food." My mother picked up her wine glass. "I hope those lessons will pay off in time for the wedding. Ilyich is quite the expensive teacher." 

As a woman infused with all the grace in the world, she turned her head away from us so that she wasn't facing anyone as she sipped on the wine. Jasper returned my pea volley with a small shower of chopped scallions. 

My mother pressed a napkin against her lips, oblivious to the food fight. "Logan," she called out. My bodyguard straightened his shoulders, promptly setting down his utensils. 

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"I've heard from the staff that there's been some . . . noises coming from your room at night. May I ask why?" 

Oh, shit. 

Without missing a beat, Logan gave her a bashful smile and said, "My apologies, Your Highness. I try and practice my drill routine every night to keep myself in shape." 

My mother widened her eyes. "Every night?" she asked. Logan nodded. "I commend your discipline, then," she continued with a truly impressed smile. "I guess your father was right when he said you were his most dedicated agent." 

"I'm honored that you think so too, Your Highness."  

"However, I have to insist that you take a break tonight," she said. "For yourself and for Park's health since we'll all be in the city tonight and I'd like for everyone to be well-rested. Especially Park. She's already so impatient at fittings, I can't imagine how much worse she'd be if she's tired. Jasper, too."

"That's because you take hours!" Jasper and I both protested at the same as Logan answered, "As you wish, Your Highness." 

With an approving beam at Logan, my mother ignored her daughter and nephew, sipping away at her wine. Luckily, it meant the rest of dinner continued without my mother prying more into Logan's late-night activities. By the time dessert rolled around, she excused herself to tend to some last-minute schedule changes. 

"You were working out?" Jasper said through a mouth full of strawberry cheesecake. "And here I thought you two were banging it out."

I choked. Logan choked. As I slammed my fist against my chest, trying to clear up my airway, Logan's chair screeched as he abruptly got up and fled the dining hall. 

"What is wrong with you?" I asked, downing the last bits of cheesecake with some water. 

Jasper at least had the nerve to look nervous. "Look, I was going to hang out with you one night but you weren't in your room, and I heard some . . . thudding noises from Logan's room."

"And what, you instantly thought we were 'banging it out'?!"

"No! I waited down the hall and you didn't come out until hours later all sweaty." Jasper's face was red, too. "I'm fifteen, Park; I know what people do when they like each other."

"We do not like each other!"

"That's not what it looks like!"

Seething, I shot up from my seat and left as quick as I could. My room wasn't an option -- Logan probably fled to his, and the last thing I wanted was to see his face after Jasper's abominable comment.

God, my face was so warm. Outside. I needed to go outside. 

I hurried down the hallways towards the back doors that led me out onto a wide cream stone balcony overlooking the rest of the garden. My sneakers dashed down the steps and past the stone walkways, taking me farther past the rose hedges.

There were no royal guards stationed throughout the garden. My mother considered it her sanctuary, and with guards came the glaring presence of firearms and bayonets. Instead, my father had them stationed on the second-floor balconies to watch for intruders. To help them with that, at least a hundred black lanterns lit up three-quarters of the garden grounds, casting warm light every twenty feet or so along the walkways, which were bursting with shades of sangria and violet. The sound of trickling water dribbling from the tips of fountain statues could be heard wherever I turned my head, mixed with the ambience of crickets hiding in the grass. 

My pace slowed as I traveled the distance of the garden. The father I walked, the darker the grounds became, since there were no lanterns guiding my way as I neared the borders of the forest. The evening chill chipped away at the last bit of heat lingering on my cheeks. With just a black t-shirt on, I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering slightly.

A familiar wooden post planted at a three-way fork in the pathway called forth an old memory of my father hammering the signage into the ground to stop me from getting lost again. I followed the left trail, heading towards the lily gazebo. It was much further along, built near the very edge of the garden above a man-made pond filled with lily pads and apple blossom petals that drifted down overhead. It was rare for anyone to be this far in the garden, something that the critters liked -- the owls were much more vocal up in their nests as I strolled by.

Perfect, I thought. True momentary solitude. A chance to breathe in some fresh air and appreciate this sliver of privacy.

"Park?"

Jesus fucking christ. 

Logan's figure moved away from the bench under the gazebo. The two of us paused at opposite ends of the bridge stretching over the pond. Jasper's words flooded to the forefront of my mind, and all the evening breezes in the world couldn't do anything to dissipate the heat back on my cheeks.

I never considered myself unlucky. Prone to accidents and assassinations? Sure. A little high-risk? Maybe. A danger-magnet? Potentially.

But out of hundreds of thousands of square feet in this stupid garden (five-hundred-thousand, if I might add), I still managed to run into Cross. Now this was unlucky. 

Logan coughed into a fist, his eyes cast downwards at his shoes. Stay still, I told myself. The last thing I wanted was to enact one of those cliché scenes where people heading opposite ways couldn't stop walking into one another. Go read another for that scene. 

In the end, it was Logan who crossed the distance of the bridge with three easy strides thanks to his ridiculously long legs. I waited with bated breath, hoping he would walk right past me and up the pathway. And he almost did -- until I heard his shoes come to a stop about a foot behind me. 

"We should probably head inside," he suggested, his voice a little gargled. I turned around.

"I actually wanted to stay in the garden for a bit."

Logan nodded, his gaze carefully lowered. "Alright, then I'll accompany you until you head back in."

No. No, no, no. "Alone," I clarified.

Finally, Logan looked up right at me. "I can't let you wander around the grounds in the dark by yourself. I know we've had a chill couple of weeks, but I've been on duty this whole time." 

"Yes, I can tell by the amount of morning stabbings you've stopped." I crossed my arms. "I think I'll be safe sitting in a gazebo for thirty minutes. Besides, you didn't exactly accompany me out here, did you?"

"That was because--"

Logan stopped himself from continuing. Both of our cheeks flushed. Jasper's words probably haunted him as much as they haunted me. Tearing his gaze from mine, Logan focused on the white pebbles crushed underneath his sneakers. As if through sheer willpower, the color o his cheeks faded away at an unnatural speed. That's not fair. 

Then, Logan straightened his posture. Stepping closer, he pulled off his black cardigan and draped it over my shoulders before folding his hands behind his back, his expression all but saying: where-to-princess?

You see, I wasn't mentally or spiritually ready to spend thirty minutes in dead silence with Cross. Not with the words 'banging it out' floating around in my mind. And now that he was here, it would be physically impossible to escape his watch. 

Actually, you've done it before, Park, a memory in my head pointed out. All you have to do again is kiss--

Nope, not going down that road again. Pulling his cardigan tighter around me, I trudged back to the steps of the palace, Logan wordlessly following suit. 

As per usual, his steps were unnervingly silent. Normally, he was right next to me on our walks together, but due to this newfound professional distance he maintained, now it just felt like I was being stalked. Uncomfortable, I tell you. 

Walking back made me realize the two of us had made some pretty good distance coming out here. It felt like we'd been heading back for nearly fifteen minutes now, but we still hadn't made it out of the shadow-covered territory. The evergreens of the forest still loomed behind us, their pine-covered branches sticking through the iron gates. The sky had darkened to a rich violet, and now I could barely see the trail before me. 

God dammit, I cursed as I lost my footing for a second. Would one lantern -- just one! -- really ruin the ambience of the garden that much? I told my parents that the accidental death of their daughter would probably be worse for their romantic midnight strolls than a few measly lanterns, but three years later -- still no lighting!

"Are you blind or just doing an interpretive dance?" Logan asked, catching up with me as a small stone rolled beneath my soles. his hand gripped my arm to hold me steady while his other hand fished around in his pocket. Soon enough, his phone was out with the flashlight on, allowing a bright artificial light to illuminate our way. 

"You know," I said, "the point of a nighttime stroll is to stroll in the nighttime. Also known as 'the dark'."

"Well, you can't stroll at night or day if you break your ankle trying to walk in the dark like this."

"What a pessimist." Oh, thank God, is what I really thought when his flashlight revealed a small incline of two lethally jagged steps up the pathway. "How do agents improve their ability to see in the dark, then?"

"We use night vision goggles, Park," Logan deadpanned. 

As his foot stepped onto the dirt, a low crack! emanated from beneath his shoe. His flashlight shot to the ground, spotlighting a rather long and thin tree branch nearly splintered into two halves. 

Rather than kicking it to the side and walking on, Logan bent down to pick up the branch, using his thumb to slowly roll it up and down his palm. The apt word to describe his level of attention would be 'captivated.' Like some kind of golden retriever. 

He ended up pocketing his phone, and when Logan stood back up, he snapped the stick, resulting in two uneven and disconnected portions. Logan tossed the shorter segment away, but kept the longer one in his grip, bending a section until it was perpendicular to the original length. 

"I can't believe I forgot to teach you the most important thing," Logan said. 

"How to break sticks in half?"

Logan glowered at me. "How to disarm your opponent," he said. "With your luck, there's a small chance you'll be held at gunpoint in the future. I should've started with disarming first."

"Small chance?" I laughed. "Please. You know it's a ninety-nine percent guarantee."

"Don't sound so excited to stare down a gun, Sparrow."

"At this point, it's a rite of passage for my family. Plus," I said, trying my best to keep my voice light, "they never actually shoot anyway. I'm not worth anything dead."

You'd think by now, Logan would be used to my off-brand humor, but the alarm in his eyes made me feel like I just insulted his grandmother or something. He kept staring at me like that for quite some time until finally, he gave a little shake of his head. Stepping back, he held the branch up to my head without a single ounce of irony. He had snapped the branch into a gun.

"Make sure the safety is on," I joked. Again, he didn't laugh. Tough crowd tonight, huh?

"What do you do when they're this close?"

"Pray."

"Seriously, Park."

I am serious. "Get the gun out of their hands."

"How?" 

My hands grabbed at his forearm to try and yank the branch out of his hands, but without much difficulty, Logan simply wriggled out of my grip. "Bang," he said, pretending to shoot a bullet at my chest. 

"Don't try and disarm them by the forearm," he explained. "Aim for the hand, then push it upwards or to the side. Your number one priority should always be to move their aim away from you. Again."

Once more, he positioned the branch at my head. My first instinct was to shove it upwards, but a voice in my head told me Logan would expect that. Instead, my right hand shot up to shove his hand to the side, but Logan pulled his arm back. Bang.

"The elements you want to focus on when you're held at gunpoint is speed and surprise. Typically, this close-range position indicates that you've been cornered. It's an extremely tricky situation to get out of. It also means: your average shooter has lowered their guard. They don't expect you to know how to get away, so you need to be fast. And you also have to be careful about your eyes?"

"My eyes?" I blinked. "Oh, to make sure they don't shoot them. Can't fight if I'm blind, right?"

"No--" Logan, fighting down a frustrated snarl, tapped the space between my brows. "I mean, be careful of where you're looking. I saw you move your eyes to the left earlier. Keep eye contact before you try and disarm."

I tried again. Too slow. Again. Not enough force. And again. Too predictable. 

Logan felt impatient tonight. Rather than taking his time to make sure I was grasping the concepts he threw at me, he was rushing us through every possible scenario I could ever face. It didn't feel like a lesson -- it felt more like exposure. This is what you need to do in case you find yourself in this exact situation. This is the stance you take. This is the move you make. Got it?

Logan switched his distance this round, taking several steps back until he was way beyond the reach of my arm. 

"What do you do here?" Logan asked, the stick aimed at my head. 

Accept death, I thought. But I didn't think Logan would appreciate the comment, so I only shrugged an I-don't-know. 

"Do you charge at them?"

"If I felt particularly eager about six-feet underground that day, maybe." I rolled my eyes. "I didn't survive this long charging at bullets, Cross. You don't engage in mid- or long-range shootings."

"Good." Due to the darkness shrouding us, it was still hard for me to make out his features, especially now that he was this far from me. But I swore I caught a flicker of relief in his eyes when I answered.

"What you want to do is lower their defenses. Allow them to approach you."

Logan tossed the branch over. "Come to me," he directed. 

Privately, I marveled at his maturity. I could barely hold the branch without feeling a little silly, but clamping my mouth shut, I inched closer to him. 

When I was close enough to see the whites of his eyes, Logan moved just a centimeter to the right. His hand came up and seized the branch, pulling it forward. He twisted my hand so that the stick pointed in our opposite direction, then pinned my back against him. 

"Did you notice what I did?" he asked. My heartbeat spiked at the heat of his breath against my ear. 

"You, um, you moved out their aim first," I said, tripping out of his grip. Seemingly unfazed by our close contact, Logan merely nodded and flipped the stick, holding it once again as his imaginary firearm. 

"Now you try."

Time felt like it was dragging its feet. I swore hours were passing during this impromptu session as I spent countless of rounds trying to snatch the branch away from Logan, only to have him easily avoid me at every turn, finishing the round with a press of the stick into my shoulder, ribcage, or appendix. Logan was picking up speed each round, urging me to move faster and stronger. I swear I am, I wanted to scream every time my fingers grasped at his grip, only to fail again. 

This isn't just physical combat anymore, Sparrow. Bang. You're not trying hard enough. Bang. If you don't pick up your speed, then you're done for. Bang. Come on, Sparrow, it's like you're not even trying!

Enough! the pain in my chest screamed. Surprising both of us, I caught his wrist at an angle he couldn't move from and with my other hand, I snapped the branch. 

"If you say 'bang' one more time, I will kill you," I seethed through heavy pants, stumbling back until my body hit the trunk of a willow tree. "Guillotine. Firing squad. Lethal injection. Pick a method."

"Just a little bit more, Sparrow--"

My knees crumpled. My back slid down the tree until I came in contact with the grass beneath me. I could barely keep my head up as I duped for air, my hands pressed against my chest to ease the aching of my lungs. Logan suddenly scrambled before me, kneeling on the grass while his hands cupped my face. 

"Fuck, I pushed you too hard, didn't I?" he whispered, using the back of his hand to blot away the sweat on my cheeks. Then his arms moved to my lower back and underneath my knees, ready to scoop me up into the air. "Let's get you to bed. I'll call for some water--"

I shook my head, waving my hands in an attempt to ask for a few more minutes. If we went in like this, there'd be too many questions, too many prying eyes that would report this to the queen. At first, it looked like Logan was going to ignore me. But then he pulled his arms back, backing away to give me my space before he leaned his back against the tree trunk.

With a labored laugh, I said, "Now I know why you're not allowed to train newbies."

Logan winced. "I'm really sorry," he said. "Normally, I'm pretty good at staying in control. I don't know why I got caught up in the lesson today." 

Slowly, the sharp pain in my chest faded, letting me deepen my breaths more comfortably. "Did the stick whisper to you a prophecy about the future where I get gunned down? What got you so worked up?"

"Well," Logan started then trailed off. A few minutes ticked on by while Logan rubbed the back of his neck, his body hunched over his knees with his eyes lost in thought. 

"When you joked about how you're not worth anything dead, I think . . . I let my imagination get the better of me and I freaked out. Suddenly, all I could think about was that if anything happened tomorrow, then at the very least, I needed to be confident that you could disarm your attacker." 

He rubbed the bottom of his palms against his eyes. "God, I'm so sorry, Park."

I tugged on his arm, shaking my head. "It's alright," I said gently, bringing his hand down to his leg. "You're such a cynic. I think I'm doing pretty good overall, even if I can't disarm that well."

Oh, no. That was not a face that agreed with me. 

Logan was quick to cover it up with one of his mollifying smiles. But he yelped as I punched his arm. 

"What was that look?" I asked. 

"It's called a smile."

"No, that was a uh-huh-sure-thing-Sparrow smile." I leaned in closer, pointing my finger in his face. "You don't think I've improved at all, huh?"

"I never said that."

"You basically did! Just now, you made a face when I said I was doing good. And just a minute ago, you said you wanted to be confident that I could at least disarm, meaning you're not confident in me otherwise."

Logan tore his eyes away from mine, planting his stare straight ahead. However, I refused to look away, scooting closer to him, determinedly glaring up at his jawline. Finally, he answered. His words were slow, like he was deliberately choosing the softest way to explain his thoughts.

"I think you possess a lot of determination. But I don't think you have any conviction."

"Ah. I see you know how to use a thesaurus."

"You're determined to do well," he explained. "And you definitely have a knack for learning technique and form. But I don't think you've developed the right mentality for this field. Not the kind you need to win."

"And what is that mentality?"

Logan's eyes flickered down at me. "I told you the night you asked me to train you. These courses don't just teach you how to throw a punch; they're meant to foster a sense of desperation to survive so that when you're out in the field and it comes down between you and another person, you have the conviction to--"

"Kill," I finished. "See, I was under the impression that these were 'training' sessions. Wouldn't it be counterintuitive to have recruits murder their trainers?" 

"I can't tell if you're being willfully obtuse or just naive," snapped Logan. "Obviously, there are ways to measure if a recruit has developed the proper conviction. It manifests in the way a trainee fights, the way they look at their opponents, how steady they hold their weapons."

"You're telling me CSD just trains people until they develop a killing instinct?" I repeated. "So, what, a trainer waits until they think, 'Yeah, this guy absolutely wanted to murder me during practice today,' and then clears him for duty?"

Logan didn't answer. His eyes stared straight ahead again.

"If an agent doesn't display that conviction, then what happens?" 

"Then they're dropped. Recruits must understand that they're always in a situation of 'kill or be killed.' If they can't grasp that before field duty, then they'll just end up dying on the job."

"That's why you don't think I'm improving," I concluded. "Because I don't have murder eyes." 

After a minute, Logan affirmed my statement with a stiff nod.

Yikes. "I really hope CSD covers therapy in your health insurance. Do you even get health insurance?" 

Logan made a noise in the back of his mouth. "What are your bright ideas, Einstein? How else do you suggest people fight without training them to be survivors?" 

Well, for one, maybe CSD should really look into the benefits of the separation between work and personal life. 

And my other answer still felt so glaringly obvious that I stared at Logan for several long minutes, unable to figure out whether he was genuinely asking or joking. When I finally came to terms with the realization that there was no other motivation to Logan than "kill or be killed," my mouth parted. 

"Logan," I started, "there's a thousand things worth fighting for. I don't need to want to kill the other person first in order to survive." 

At first, he kept his lips sealed. Ready for the debate that was going to ensue, I sat quietly, waiting for him to launch into his opening statement.

But in a quiet voice, Logan asked, "Like what?" 

I brought my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. "Anything. Everything. I don't think it has to be the grandest reason either. Like . . ." I rested my chin atop my kneecaps. "I want to graduate and take my wig off when I do. I want to drive Jasper to college. Oh, Elijah is turning Paradise into this Halloween town in October, and I want to see that. And well, I can't do any of that if I'm dead." 

Then, I said softly, "I didn't ask you to teach me to be a killer, Logan. I didn't come to you thinking: how do I become the last person standing?"

"Well, then why did you ask me?" 

"Because," I shrugged with a small smile, "I want to protect the people I care about. The way you protected me that day. I thought: wouldn't it be nice if people didn't have to sacrifice themselves for me? Wouldn't it feel nice to help other people?"

I wondered if any of this was making sense to Logan. The way he was watching me didn't seem like he understood my point. I felt like I was talking in a language that he only knew the basics of, and he was struggling to translate my words.

Despite the heaviness of our conversation, a comfortable silence settled in the air between us. At this point, not a bead of sweat could be found on me, but I found myself wanting to stay out here a little longer. Logan had taken to staring off in the distance again, his eyes glazed over as his body stilled to an unnatural immobility.  

Even as a bright red ladybug flapped its minuscule wings to land atop his cheekbones, he still didn't move. 

"Hey," I said, creeping back closer and holding my index finger out. "Don't freak out, but you have a ladybug on your face." 

Only his eyes glimpsed over to me; the rest of his body maintained that statuesque stillness. I held my finger to his skin, patiently waiting for the little red lady to crawl onto my hand before I slowly moved it over to the dirt.

As it was trekking its way through the blades of grass, Logan said, in an uncharacteristically husky voice, "You're right. I think there are better convictions to fight for."

"Let me guess," I said, beaming at his change of heart. "You want to make it back to finals?"

Logan laughed, his head leaning back on the bark of the tree. A familiar lopsided smile graced his face, a smile so honest and genuine that I couldn't help but dub it my favorite smile. With our shoulders grazing, Logan looked to me and said, "Sure. Let's say that's my new conviction for now."

* * *

a/n: do people like long chapters??? this was 20 pages in word. i feel like, guilty for making you read for so long