Blood of My Monster (Monster Trilogy #1 ) by Rina Kent

“If this is your way of proving yourself, then you might as well give up. My men do 200 in a steady rhythm without blinking an eye. No limbs shaking, no groaning or whining or looking like an amateur.”

Lipovsky’s eyes widen, appearing alarmed for a moment before he remembers to school his expression. “I’m improving compared to my previous record, and I only compare my achievements to myself, sir.”

No clue whether I should laugh or smack him upside the head.

I’ve met a lot of types in my years in the special ops, but he’s the only one who’s had this infuriating habit of talking back, even to a superior.

“That’s a foolish way of saying you’ll never improve. The past you isn’t a measurement of success, and if you only do self-comparison, the world will move by you before you know it.” I straighten. “On the ground, Private.”

His eyes study me for a while, probably wondering if what he heard is correct.

“On. The. Ground,” I repeat. “Continue what you were doing.”

He’s about to object. I can see it in his deep hazel eyes, a curious mixture of earth and forest. And since it’s freezing winter here, they seem to be stuck in a different universe at an alternative time with nontraditional customs.

A protest lurks on the tip of his tongue, but he has the self-preservation mentality to slowly lower himself to the ground for push-ups.

“One,” I count and he goes down. “Two.”

“How many am I supposed to do?”

“Until I stop counting. Three.”

He remains in the same stance, but there’s a slight curve in his back.

“Four. Five. Six.”

“Sir, may I speak?”

“You already are.”

He glares at the ground. I see it because I’m in a bilateral position, where I can watch the entirety of him and his slim, bony body that shouldn’t have been accepted into the military in the first place.

“My limit is 120, sir, and I already finished that. I’ve been adding ten a day for six days, so I can’t go anymore.” He strains with every word and his ass curves up.

I jam my boot on his back and push it down so that he’s straight. “Your desire to join my team should be the deciding factor on whether or not you can go more. Seven.”

It takes a moment, only a few seconds of heavy breathing and half groans and grunts, before he lowers himself farther.

I count faster and keep my boot on his back, then on his ass when he starts getting sloppy.

His face goes redder at that one and I’m tempted to keep it there just to fuck with his head. However, he’s smart enough to slightly raise his back and draw my attention to it.

Once I switch my boot to his spine, he doesn’t raise his ass again. Not even once.

He’s on the verge of collapsing, though.

Good. He’s obviously never pushed himself to physical exhaustion where he no longer feels his limbs, and that’s exactly why I’m doing this.

He needs to realize that limits are only invented in his mind and could only serve as a self-made cage.

I’m twenty-eight now, so I can understand that, but a long time ago, when I was younger than him and had to deal with my father’s games, I was as oblivious as this kid.

“Sir, I can’t take it anymore.” His voice and limbs tremble.

“Thirty-five.”

“Sir…”

“Thirty-six.”

“I’m—”

“Thirty-seven.”

“I can’t…” His voice chokes and he falls over, going limp all of a sudden.

Did he just…faint?

I tap his sweaty face once, then pause. That day, when I saw those soldiers cornering him, I heard sideways remarks. Things like:

He’s so girly.

A weakling.

I bet he takes it in the ass.

A sodomite.

Usually, I would’ve walked away from such a scene, and in view of how persistent this shit has become since I saved him, I probably should’ve let him be.

But I didn’t.

I wonder why. It probably had to do with the desperation on his face, and the way he intended to take the beating, no matter how brutal it got.

Now, I’m thinking about those soldiers’ words again. More specifically, the girly part.

His skin is so soft, it’s almost like butter beneath my fingers, and that’s…fucked up.

Not because of the feminine part, but the fact that someone as delicate as he is, is hell-bent on joining the army. It’s a place for brutes and outcasts like myself.

People who only know how to kill and need a license to do it freely and with a justified cause.

This is a nest for the orphans, the poor, and men who usually have no place to turn back to. Those who protect society are the very ones who were rejected by it.

I’m ninety-nine percent sure Lipovsky is a woman. The only reason I keep addressing him as a he is because that’s the gender he chooses to display on the outside. In fact, he’s making a lot of effort to avoid standing out.

He starts wheezing, his breathing morphing into an irregular rhythm. I grab him by a fistful in his shirt and turn him over so that he’s lying on his back.

My boots are on either side of his waist, and I pause again at the sight of his face under the bright moonlight. Delicate, gentle features, small nose and mouth, soft facial curves.