The Battle of Betazed - Charlotte Douglas [92]
The first time they had fought, in one of the Stargazer ‘s corridors, he had surprised her by getting in a lucky punch, and she had gazed at him with admiration in her eyes. It was to resurrect that moment that he endured this kind of punishment.
He didn’t do it in order to become an expert in Klingon martial arts—he had no aspirations in that regard. He came to the gym three times a week and suffered contusions and bone bruises for one reason only: to force Gerda to see him as an equal. To see him as a warrior.
And eventually, if he was very diligent and very fortunate, to see him as a lover.
With this in mind, Greyhorse again assumed the basic position. Knees bent, he reminded himself. One hand forward, one hand back. Knuckles extended, so.
More important, he focused his mind. He saw himself driving his fist into his opponent’s face, once, twice, and again, so quickly that his blows couldn’t be parried. And he ignored the fact that it was Gerda’s face he was pounding.
“Kave’ragh!” growled the doctor, a man who had never growled at anything in his life.
This time Greyhorse’s attack was more effective. Gerda was unable to knock it off-line. In fact, it was only by moving her head at the last moment that she avoided injury.
He was grateful that she had. He didn’t want to hurt her. He only wanted to prove to her that he could.
It was an irony he found difficult to accept—that he could only hope to win Gerda’s love by demonstrating an ability to maim her. But then, the woman had been raised in a culture that made aggression a virtue. She had, to say the least, an unusual point of view.
Again, Greyhorse roared, “Kave’ragh!” and moved to strike her. Again, Gerda was unable to deflect his blow. And again, she managed to dodge anyway.
Getting closer, he told himself. She knew it, too. He could see it in her gaze, hard and implacable, demanding everything of him and giving away nothing.
Not even hope.
Yet Gerda knew how much he wanted her. She had to. He had blurted it out that day in the corridor.
She hadn’t acknowledged it since, of course, and Greyhorse hadn’t brought it up again. All they did was show up at their appointed time in the gym, teacher and pupil, master and enslaved.
“Kave’ragh!” he cried out.
Then he put everything into one last punch—too much, as it turned out, because he leaned too far forward and Gerda took painful advantage of the fact.
She didn’t just elude Greyhorse’s attack. She sidekicked him in the belly, knocking the wind out of him and doubling him over. Then she hit him in the back of his head with the point of her elbow, driving him to his knees.
Stunned, gasping for breath and dripping sweat, he remained on all fours for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he found the strength to drag himself to his feet.
Gerda was waiting for him with her arms folded across her chest, a lock of yellow hair dangling and a thin sheen of perspiration on her face. He had expected to find disapproval in her expression, maybe even disgust at the clumsiness he had exhibited.
But what he saw was a hint of the look she had given him in the corridor. A hint of admiration.
It made Greyhorse forget how Gerda had bludgeoned him, though his throat still burned and his ribs still throbbed and there was a distinctly metallic taste of blood in his mouth. In fact, it made him eager for more.
“Tomorrow?” she asked.
He nodded, inviting waves of vertigo even with that modest gesture. “I’ll be here.”
Gerda tilted her head slightly, as if to appraise him better. She remained that way for a moment, piercing his soul with her eyes. Then she turned her back on him, pulled a towel off the rack on the wall, and left the gym.
Greyhorse watched her go. She moved with animal grace, each muscle working in perfect harmony with all the others. When the doors hissed closed behind her, he felt as if he had lost a part of himself.
How he loved her.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter