It was all wrong.
If Ethan had learned anything from his years of marriage, it was how to tell when things were okay, and when things were fucked; it was like a sixth sense, keenly tuned in to Mia's moods and thoughts.
Bela grew more distant by the day, and it set off every alarm bell in his body. If his internal thermometer went from okay to wrong, the needle was currently hovering around very fucking wrong.
Any excuse Bela had to remove herself from Ethan's presence, she would take. The lunches they shared together soon became a thing of the past as Bela isolated herself in her bedroom. Ethan was left in his cell with his food, his journal, and no idea what was going on
Ethan was getting thoroughly acquainted with his guestroom all over again, now that he was seldom in Bela's room the past few days.
Even the little time they did spend together became strained. Over morning coffee, Bela kept her attention on anywhere but Ethan; monosyllabic replies were all Ethan got out of Bela whenever he attempted to strike up a conversation.
On occasion, Ethan caved, and he'd ask Bela what was wrong – and if she wanted to talk about whatever was bothering her. Each time, like clockwork, Bela plastered on a fake smile, and told him nothing was wrong. Without fail, it caused Ethan's worry to grow tenfold. His questions were dodged, and every one of his looks and pleas were ultimately ignored.
The only safe ground for conversation was Bela's latest project: Ethan's abused hands.
Bela spared him most of the details, but did explain that she would soon have a homemade salve ready. She surmised that the absence of Ethan's usual medication was allowing his moldy biology to begin repairing the damage it sustained, albeit slowly. Bela's remedy was meant to stimulate Ethan's healing capabilities and speed up the process. If all went well, Bela was expecting Ethan to have his fingers back within the month.
And if they didn't go well – Bela gave Ethan her first smile in two days – she was confident he would not turn into some horrific mold monster, at the very least.
Bela's reassurance didn't do much to calm Ethan's mind. Not when he recalled the disfigured, twisted bodies of the Baker Family.
However, aside from the topic of regrowing Ethan's fingers (something he still could hardly believe), there was little that Bela willingly talked about. It twisted the knife in his heart more and more whenever Bela would take her leave in the evening – early, and not well into the midnight hours like she used to.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Ethan's relationship with Cassandra had grown increasingly amicable.
An amicable relationship with Cassandra fucking Dimitrescu.
Hell would probably freeze over if this kept up.
The evenings had passed similarly to the last – and not at all like their first spar. Cassandra was competitive, and enjoyed tossing the occasional verbal jab his way, but she had mellowed since the first fight. Her blood no longer boiled at the sight of him, and she appeared content to simply throw hands with him every evening. Ethan had no qualms with the development. It was a good way to blow off steam and form a friendly bond with the brunette – or whatever this thing was between them, born of blood, pain, and sweat.
It was on the third day since Bela shattered her bathroom mirror when she stopped Ethan at the base of the armory stairs.
Bela spoke first, preempting his question, "I will not stay for the fight."
The first tingles of alarm climbed up Ethan's spine; his world grew ever colder, with just a few words. Ethan asked, "What? Why?"
"It is clear that Cass does not intend to kill you," Bela shrugged one shoulder, eyes fixed to stare at Ethan's collarbone, "I am simply not needed up there, and I would rather not watch you and my sister beat each other senseless."
"And what if she hurts me? If she decides to take another bite, then what?" Ethan tried to meet Bela's eyes to no avail as the worry in his voice grew audible. Yet the worry wasn't truly directed at his own wellbeing. He simply wanted Bela to stay.
Bela shook her head. "She will do no such thing. If she wanted to hurt you, she would have done so by now."
Ethan wasn't sure what look he wore on his face, but he must have appeared decidedly crestfallen, because Bela quickly added, "If you require treatment or a shower, you can still pass by my room before returning to the cell."
A slight sigh slipped out of Ethan's lips.
He didn't miss Bela's particular wording – that he was meant to return to his own room after he was done in Bela's. In and out – and that was that. He was no longer welcome to linger in her room and spend time with her, as was the case the past few nights, however quiet it was.
Another wedge in their increasingly uncertain relationship. Another avenue for communication and reestablishing normalcy – gone.
In spite of himself, Ethan softened his voice and began, "Bela, you've been acting off ever since you busted that mirror, and I know that was no accident." A small pause, hoping it would get Bela's attention. "You know you can talk to me, right?"
Bela pressed her lips together – as if taking the extra effort to prevent words from escaping her mouth.
"I can tell something's wrong, tapeworm."
"Nothing is wrong," Bela shook her head sharply, and a little too quickly. "I just have a lot on my mind."
Ethan placed a hand on Bela's arm; it was a small victory that she didn't flinch away. "I might be able to help out that bug brain of yours if you tell me what's going on."
"It is nothing, really," Bela insisted.
After all the shitstorms Ethan had survived, he liked to think he had thick skin. Yet in that moment, it hurt knowing Bela had gone from trusting him with snippets of her first life, to refusing to give even a glimpse into what was tormenting her now. It hit too close to home – reminding him of Mia's dodgy behavior in the immediate aftermath of the Baker House.
Yet even he and Mia had worked through that rough patch, and got out of it together stronger than ever.
In a moment of vulnerability, Ethan asked under his breath, "Are we okay?"
Bela's eyes finally flicked up to look at him properly. She swallowed and nodded, "We are. But I…" Her eyes fell back down, and her fingers nervously played with his. "There are things that are bothering me, and I cannot explain them just yet. Not when I myself have not figured it out."
"You don't have to figure it out alone." Ethan placed his other hand on Bela's arm, ducking his head to try and meet her eyes. "If I've done anything – said anything to make you doubt that you can talk to me –"
"No." Bela shook her head again. Her own hands came up to land on Ethan's face, cupping his cheeks. Even as her forehead creased and her brows pitched, she spoke with certainty, "You have done nothing wrong." A small smile crossed her face as she added, "I cannot tell you how grateful I am for you, puppy."
Ethan meant to ask once more – to plead with Bela to let him in so he could help. Before he got the chance, Bela leaned forward, pressing her lips against Ethan's, derailing any semblance of rational thought in his mind.
He was fairly sure his heart flatlined for a solid second before restarting in a frenzy. He shut his eyes, basking in the brief tranquility, even if it only lasted a moment.
Bela pulled back before he could slip his arms around her waist and deepen the kiss. She wore a reassuring smile, as she told him, "Don't worry, just…" The familiar soft frown creased her tattooed forehead, "Just give me a little bit of time, okay?"
"Okay," Ethan felt the lopsided grin rise to his face, "If you ever need your little one, you know where to find me."
An endearing hum from Bela, and she placed her hands on Ethan's chest, "My ever dependable, very annoying, little…" Bela's eyes flickered over his shoulder for a long second, and the smile fell from her face.
"What's going on?" Ethan glanced over his shoulder to the second floor corridors, and found them empty. "Do you hear someone?"
"No," Bela cleared her throat, extracting herself from Ethan's arms. "It's nothing." She shook her head and took an abrupt step around Ethan – taking her exit. "I'll see you later, hm?"
Bela all but ran away as she stepped out into the hallway. She ignored Ethan's cry of, "Bela – wait, Bela!"
Ethan was left alone at the base of the armory stairs, and all he could do was sigh into his hands and rub his tired face.
Just when he thought they were making a sliver of progress, whatever haunted Bela tightened its noose around her – reeling her away from him. Ethan dreaded to think of how it would all come to a head. Considering the lengths Bela went to avoid opening up, a torrential flood awaited them when the dam finally burst.
Ethan forced himself to get moving. The longer he delayed, the more likely Cassandra would suspect something was up. The less reasons he gave the brunette to be suspicious, the better.
Besides, it's not like moping here and turning the past five minutes over in his head would accomplish anything.
Ethan ascended the steps with his head hung, and his paces slow. He arrived at the armory as Cassandra was in the midst of warming up. She looked just as she had every other night so far, except her rash guard was white for a change; it brought out the pallid color of her skin even more. From the other side of the room, she took a step forward, swinging her foot up in a high kick. She twisted her body, extending her hand to tap her foot at the peak of the kick. Once her foot was back on solid ground, she nodded Ethan's way, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lip.
"There you are, punching bag." Cassandra craned her head, trying to peek over Ethan's shoulder as she remarked, "Look at that – all alone. Where is my charming sister tonight?" Cassandra allowed the question to hang in the air as she moved. She retrieved her hand towel from the closest table and wiped the sweat from her brow. When Ethan didn't answer, Cassandra added, "For a moment there, I was worried I may have to pry you from Bela's grasp myself, but seeing as she's not here…"
On any normal day, such harmless jabs from Cassandra would not have fazed him. Hell, they would normally prompt Ethan to shoot back with something equally lighthearted and petty. But given Bela's increasingly distant attitude, and her withdrawal from joining him in the armory – well, it stung more than it should have.
"Whatever," Ethan muttered and began his ritual of shedding his sweater and kicking off his shoes. He dumped the sweater into a messy pile on the bench Bela usually occupied. "Let's just get this over with."
While Ethan had grumbled the words more to himself than to Cassandra, she had nevertheless overheard him; it was easy to forget the Dimitrescu sisters' nearly supernatural senses.
"I see you woke up on the wrong side of the bed," came Cassandra's observation. Ethan didn't grace her with a reply. He focused instead on nudging his shoes underneath the bench, where they couldn't be tripped over. His silence led Cassandra to add in question, "What's the matter? Trouble in paradise with dearest Bela?"
The heat pooled in Ethan's chest; it erupted out as he turned to face Cassandra and snapped, "It's none of your damn business."
The surprise on Cassandra's face was a new look. One of the rare glimpses of emotion behind her usually purposely stoic face. Her raised brows soon lowered, resetting into neutrality. Dejected yellow eyes dipped down for a beat – a new look he had never before seen from Cassandra. Ethan could only curse himself internally.
Against all odds – against all rationality and sensibility in the world – Cassandra had been genuine in her inquiry, even if her methodology had been a little crass. The prickly nature of his relationship with Cassandra was a given. A good majority of their communication took the form of taunts and verbal jabs at one another – yet him snapping was a first. Genuine frustration and anger had not arisen between Ethan and Cassandra since that first spar in the armory, and it showed in the almost offended look that flashed across her face.
Cassandra shrugged his attitude off in the end, her features impassive once more. "Very well." Her only remaining tell – as always – was the tap of her pointer finger against her leggings. Yet even that, she soon ceased; Cassandra joined her hands together in front of her, one hand clamping around her twitchy index finger.
"Look, I'm sorry." Ethan sighed and stepped deeper into the armory. Apologizing to Cassandra for anything was new. It was an oddity that was not amiss to Ethan, yet in spite of that, he felt it was the right thing to do. "I didn't mean to snap."
"No, you're right," Cassandra replied, her voice deceptively even, despite her sharp delivery, "It's none of my damn business. We're not here to be friends." She turned to the table by her side, and craned her head over her shoulder as she concluded, "We're here to fight."
Ethan didn't push the issue. The finality in Cassandra's tone said enough, so the best he could do was carry on as normal. "Is it gonna be the usual for tonight?"
"Not quite. How familiar are you with knives?"
Ethan narrowed his eyes. Odds were good that Cassandra was finally about to torture him, now that Bela was out of the picture. It was either that, or a genuine question. But after Ethan had gotten intimately familiar with Cassandra under her knife, his smarmy tongue answered on his behalf, "Yeah, now that you mention it, I'm pretty familiar." He raised his right hand into the air, wriggling his severed finger for emphasis, "Been stabbed, tortured, and maimed by one. Imagine that."
Cassandra's impassive face looked more like a resting bitch face this time around. She pushed off the table, giving Ethan a clear look at the contents on the surface.
Wooden training knives lay on the tabletop, ready for use.
Ethan took his eyes off the blunted weapons to look at Cassandra. He felt just a smidge of embarrassment as he lowered his scarred right arm to answer, "I'm familiar enough."
"That will do," Cassandra remarked, grabbing two knives off the table. She held one in each hand and approached Ethan. One was a karambit with a curved wooden blade, while the second was a simple straight knife. "Take your pick."
As Cassandra came to a stop in front of Ethan and extended the training weapons forward, he realized the wood was tinted red with –
"Lipstick?" Ethan asked aloud as the clarity sunk in.
"Yes," Cassandra answered, "To mark hits."
Ethan eyed the color smeared on the knives for a moment longer. "I'm surprised these aren't black."
Cassandra's head tilted in silent question, and Ethan added, "That's like you and your sisters' entire motif."
Cassandra snorted softly and shook her head. "If you must know, I nabbed the red lipstick from mother." She brought the straight knife up to her pursed lips. "Shh."
Ethan bit down on his smile as he accepted the wooden karambit. His eyes ran along the red-tinted length of the blade.
It was more common a practice than Ethan had initially thought, when Hound Wolf Squad had done the same in training. They'd show up to the ring wearing white, and leave with dozens of red smears on their clothing – a very vivid reminder of how many possibly fatal wounds they could have sustained.
Ethan had to wonder where Cassandra had picked up the practice, considering how couped up she was in this castle. It wasn't like she had a group to train and pass combative knowledge back and forth with.
Cassandra had made it clear that Daniela wasn't much of a fighter, and that Bela no longer joined in the sparring – but there was a time wherein she had. Had such training techniques come from Bela somehow? Had Bela picked those practices up elsewhere? Who in their right mind would provide knife training to a band of murderous, man-eating sisters?
Ethan shook his head to himself and stepped back from Cassandra before his mind could wander any further. He turned the wooden knife over in his hands, getting a feel of the weapon.
Chris favored the unconventionally curved blade, and had passed that on to Ethan. While Ethan knew his way around a regular straight knife, his training had been more in depth with the karambit, thanks to Chris' preference.
"Same rules?" Ethan asked, idly twirling the knife in his fingers.
"Yes," Cassandra nodded, stepping back to give Ethan space as they occupied the center of the armory. She drummed her fingers along the handle of the knife, adjusting her grip on it. "For both of our sakes, let's keep the stabs light."
"Got it. No wooden stake through the heart." Ethan extended his knife forward in a show of good faith.
His joke got a smirk from Cassandra, but his outstretched weapon soon wiped the smile off. It prompted Cassandra to furrow her brows in confusion, eyes darting between him and his weapon. "Normally, we touch gloves before a fight, not knives."
"Who says we can't do both?" Ethan kept the karambit out and waited.
When Ethan did not relent, Cassandra let out an amused huff and caved. She raised her straight knife forward, tapping it against Ethan's. With the pre-fight courtesy out of the way, Cassandra's serious face returned, and she lowered into a fighting stance. Ethan followed suit, sliding one leg forward and one back – prepared to move at a moment's notice.
Their spar started off slow, the same as the past few nights. They swung and lunged at one another with controlled power and speed – measuring range and getting a feel of each other's tempo. As each strike came in, they weaved and stepped clear, neither side willing to commit to a full-blown assault just yet. It gave both of them the time to gauge one another's skill and proficiency.
If Ethan were honest with himself, he could admit that it had been a long time since he'd trained knives this way. More focus went into training to defend against knife attacks, while remaining unarmed. Knife-to-knife combat wasn't something Chris had him train with the Hound Wolves too often.
But one lesson did stick with Ethan to this day, simple and direct as it was.
Cassandra lurched forward with a straight stab, prompting Ethan to smack her hand away with his own, and take a quick step to the side. He swung his knife to slash at her arms, but Cassandra had gotten a bead on his tempo, and reacted accordingly. She slapped his hand clear in the same way he had, and swung a cut at his arms.
The red lipstick marked a clean slash along Ethan's forearm, and he hastily put space between himself and Cassandra before she could land another.
The lesson Chris taught was that in a knife fight, expect to get cut.
It was simply inevitable. No matter how skilled and competent of a fighter you are, as long as a blade is involved in close quarters – you're bound to lose some blood. Even Chris walked out of the training ring with angry red marks all over his clothing – and it was something Ethan and the Hound Wolves enjoyed a little too much; it was their chance to get even with their squad leader for all the beatings he doled out in training.
Once you learned to accept the constant of getting cut, you could then focus on your offense without overthinking how you don't want to get stabbed.
Cassandra swung diagonally, aiming to land another cut on Ethan's arms. He stepped off-angle, and towards Cassandra's side. With his armed hand, he used his forearm to block and deflect Cassandra's arm, then swung. The lipstick-laced karambit swiped a red line across Cassandra's neck, and Ethan got clear before she could recover and attack.
A large part of Chris' training was channeling aggression to overwhelm and destroy the enemy. That wasn't to say Chris advocated recklessness, and leaving yourself open to attack – defense was, of course, paramount to survival. But what Chris did place emphasis on was that perfectly channeled aggression was a lethal weapon. If the enemy would be too stunned to respond to attacks in a timely manner, then they would die, and you would emerge the victor. It was wise to apply those principles in training, even if Ethan wasn't looking to put Cassandra in the ground.
Cassandra swiped a hand to her neck. When her palm came away red, she looked at Ethan, giving him a small nod – as if acknowledging his clean hit.
Naturally, she didn't stay impressed for long. She instead sought to get even.
Not that Ethan would let her. He had been watching her closely – noting that low stance she was taking. It was forcing him to direct his focus lower – stooping by a degree to anticipate her attacks possibly coming from down low.
Ethan swung the karambit upward, aiming to land a cut on her shoulder, before following up to the face.
Cassandra parried with her free hand, meeting his wrist with her own and nullifying the threat of the blade. Simultaneously, her armed hand came down, swiping a cut across his arm. Faster than he could blink, her wooden blade flowed, marking a swift cut across his chest – punctuating her final attack with a solid poke to the collarbone.
Stumbling back, Ethan was left reeling – and glancing down at the red marks on his grey shirt. When his eyes met Cassandra's, she shot him a wink – clearly pleased with herself. Ethan returned an acknowledging nod of his own.
Never one to let Cassandra's smugness last for long, Ethan came in, feinting a jab with his unarmed left hand. It baited a reaction from Cassandra, who swung diagonally down, targeting his arm. Ethan reeled his hand in, and anticipated Cassandra's second strike.
Ethan caught her at the wrist with his free hand; he swung his karambit up, marking a cut along her upper arm. He turned and twisted, pulling on Cassandra's offending arm, hooking the karambit at her wrist. Ethan yanked her arm down and to the right to neutralize the threat of the weapon and set up his next strike.
Cassandra sent her weapon reeling in a backswing, aimed for his head. Ethan weaved his head back and clear of the attack, only to lean right back in as he swung horizontally for Cassandra's neck.
She seized him by the wrist, and Ethan collapsed his elbow in response, bringing Cassandra closer. He grabbed Cassandra's wrist right back and twisted his hand – destabilizing her grip just enough to free his weapon in time to swipe at her ribs.
Ethan meant to disengage from there. Such quick, explosive bursts of movement were draining – more so than regular hand-to-hand fighting, where he had time to catch his breath. When caught up in a flurry of knives, the exchanges bled into one another, and there was little time to recover between blows.
Cassandra was, apparently, well aware of this, and so she allowed him no breathing room. She grabbed him by the wrist once more while his weapon was down, all the way by his hip. She locked her arm straight, preventing Ethan from muscling against her. Then her knife came shooting in a straight stab, and Ethan just barely caught her wrist before she could land the blow.
They wrestled across the armory, grunting and heaving as they went, until Ethan locked his arm out, matching Cassandra's own grip on him. They remained in that position for a while longer, neither side gaining any ground.
As the seconds ticked by, Ethan erupted in a quick snort of a laugh.
Cassandra wriggled against Ethan's tight grip – both to free her armed hand, and to restrain Ethan's. With their faces in such close proximity to one another, it occurred to Ethan late that he essentially laughed right into her neck. She gave him a side eyed glare and asked, "What's so funny, man-thing?"
Ethan cracked a smile at the standstill they were locked in, and told her, "This isn't going anywhere."
That familiar glare of Cassandra's tightened, and she shot back, "Says you."
Abruptly, Cassandra yanked Ethan's knife hand towards her, sending him tumbling forward. She pulled his arm securely across her collarbone – where the knife couldn't reach her vitals. At the same time, it gave her the chance to rip her knife free from Ethan's grip, where it was summarily poked into his lower abdomen – right where his kidney should be.
The awe washed over Ethan as Cassandra released him, giving him a gentle push to create space between them. She stood straight for a moment, her breathing labored, but a small smile persisting at the corner of her lips the entire time.
Cassandra was a better knife fighter than she was an unarmed one, that was for sure. Ethan massaged a hand to his abdomen – against his latest stab wound – as he assessed his sparring partner.
In a barehanded fight, Cassandra was a slugger. There wasn't much technique or finesse to her movements, but she had the unmistakable tells of someone who had been in a good handful of scraps in her life. Less technical proficiency and more honed instinct. She could undoubtedly hold her own, and Ethan had an inkling that she had done so, whether in this life, or the past.
Her knife skills were a different story completely. Had she been fighting with a knife the same way she fought barehanded, then she would be relying on brute strength or pure speed – jabbing him with as many stabs or cuts in as short amount of time as possible; end the fight before it really began, through overwhelming damage.
Yet that wasn't the case. Cassandra was fluid. She had finesse, and was countering Ethan's techniques with her own.
"Well," Ethan began. "You definitely look like you know what you're doing."
"If I didn't know any better, I would take that as a compliment," Cassandra remarked with a straight face.
Ethan scoffed, giving a sharp shake of his head. "Take it however you want. I'm being serious here." He pointed at the knife in her hand. "You're not using that sickle of yours, but a normal knife, and you're moving like someone who's fresh out of their daily knife fighting class."
When Cassandra's eyes darted away from Ethan's, he knew he'd hit his mark. Whether he'd struck a chord, or a nerve, remained to be seen. He hoped it was the former, as Bela wasn't here to save his bacon if he'd struck a nerve.
A noncommittal shrug from Cassandra, and she said, "Let's say I am simply using you as a refresher course."
Ethan motioned to the numerous red marks on his clothing and skin alike. "You seem pretty refreshed to me."
Cassandra twirled the knife in her hand once before adopting her stance once more. Ethan couldn't place what system Cassandra had been trained in, but that was of little surprise – his own bladed weapon skills were limited to Chris' teachings.
Yet even Chris' training was starting to pale in comparison to Cassandra's proficiency with a knife. Ethan had been trained to end a fight quickly, while sustaining as little damage as possible. It only took a single look at all the red marks to tell he should be dead a few times over now. Whoever had trained Cassandra outdid themselves.
Seeing Cassandra's poker face, Ethan was forced to mirror her motions – return to a stable stance, lest she smack him for talking too much.
But Ethan was nothing if not persistent.
As he dodged out of reach of Cassandra's first swing, Ethan asked, "You learn all this before or after you became a bug woman?"
Ethan was forced to first deal with Cassandra's follow up – a straight stab aimed for his face; it was her nonverbal reply to cease his line of questioning. He caught her arm with his outer forearm, then pulled down to catch her wrist with the karambit's wooden blade. A swipe to the side of her neck, and Ethan disengaged before Cassandra could swing again.
Cassandra's chest heaved with heavy breaths as she glared down at him – only pausing to wipe away sweat that trickled by her eye. When the thick silence drew on, it became even more obvious that she had no desire to answer the question.
But on its own, Ethan felt that was already telling. His gut was leaning towards before. She wouldn't be as evasive and quiet if she had learned her knifework in this life.
Daniela's warnings were still fresh in Ethan's mind. He knew Cassandra's first life had supposedly been a terrible one – and that was reason enough to mellow his line of questioning. If he wanted to keep pressing, he had to do so cautiously.
Ethan tried his luck and prodded.
"I mean – look at that," Ethan motioned to the red slashes across his chest and neck, "You must've had a pretty good teacher."
Cassandra's only reaction was to tighten her glare even more.
And now the bait.
"Did Bela teach you?"
Cassandra scoffed so harshly that she may as well have spit on the floor. "No. She didn't. You know what she did teach me?" The agitation formed in a scowl on Cassandra's face. "She taught me other things – more along the lines of how to cut up a man to bleed him just right." She bared her teeth, eyes alight with a renewed anger. Her knuckles turned white, and the wood strained in her hand as she tightened her grip on the knife. "How to make a person suffer, but keep them alive long enough to really feel it."
Ethan's heart began to hammer in his chest, and he hardly had time to process it before Cassandra lunged, knife raised over her shoulder. He caught her hand at the wrist, and soon felt Cassandra do the same to his own knife hand. It was pinned in place against his hip, with Cassandra's locked arm preventing him from advancing.
In a stalemate once more, Ethan managed to voice his disbelief, "You really mean that? Bela taught you that?"
Cassandra craned her head to look at him – her face inches away. When up this close and personal, it was impossible to miss the resentment in Cassandra's eyes. She wriggled in Ethan's grip for a beat – testing his strength in their current grapple.
"Who do you think Bela is, really?" Cassandra asked back.
It wasn't a question Ethan knew how to answer briefly. In Ethan's books, Bela had been the sanest, most put-together sister of them all. She was the one who sheltered, clothed, and fed him when he was at his lowest. Bela was his angel of mercy in this godforsaken castle, and much, much more.
Ethan knew better than to voice that out loud, especially when Cassandra was as riled up as she was.
"Listen to me closely, man-thing," Cassandra inched her face towards Ethan – close enough that he could feel her breath on his face. "Everything to do with hurting and maiming humans," She scoffed hot against his face, "Everything I did to your arm, and that whole fucking game I put you through – those are all Bela's teachings."
Cassandra jerked her hand – cocked and ready to strike – upwards. She ducked her head underneath Ethan's arm, getting it over the nape of her neck. The explosive movement lent power to Cassandra's vicious tug, wrenching her knife hand free from Ethan's grasp. It allowed her to crash the knife into his back in a solid jab.
More out of instinct than anything else, Ethan stepped forward and swung his foot back – while Cassandra's weight was still gathered onto a single leg.
A sharp intake of breath from Cassandra, and she sailed in a short arc, falling onto her back – with Ethan supporting her by the arm. He prevented Cassandra from being struck by the full impact of the ground.
Ethan was quick to release Cassandra's arm and step back – give her the breathing room she needed. On cue, Cassandra scrambled up to her feet and into a defensive position; her face flushed, and her pupils dilated in a look of alarm. Her hands suppressed a tremble as they came up to protect herself; she looked more like a cornered animal than a woman wholly capable of tearing him apart.
There was so much to unpack in the little Cassandra had said, but he had to file that away in his mind for later analysis. Bela's apparently sadistic past could wait until the evening when he was alone with his thoughts and his journal. For now, Cassandra was talking – and he had to make the most of it.
"If Bela didn't teach you how to swing a knife around," Ethan took a breath as the physical exertion caught up to him. "Then who did? Who taught you?"
Quicker than he expected, Cassandra grunted back, "I don't know."
Ethan tilted his head by a smidge and asked, "You don't know?" He braced himself for the inevitable attack that would follow, and asked, "Or you won't tell a man-thing like me?"
"I don't know!" Cassandra lurched forward with a swing to punctuate her frustration.
Ethan ducked and weaved away from the wide, angry attacks, each accompanied by Cassandra's rough growls. He marked a couple of quick, small cuts to Cassandra's arms as he went. The anger was making her sloppy, and easier to avoid.
Cassandra turned to face Ethan as he continually stepped off angle and to her sides. He got a look at the sneer on her face as she added, "And even if I did know, it's none of your damn business, is it?"
He probably deserved that.
"Look, Cassandra," Ethan backpedaled from another of her swings, "I'm not trying to pry, and I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier." He gulped air down, trying to flood his muscles with the much-needed oxygen. Out of her reach, he slowed his movements and continued, "I just figured if we're gonna keep doing this, then I ought to try and get to know you better."
Cassandra closed the distance before he could blink, capitalizing on his dropped guard; she landed a stab on his shoulder, and a swift cut to his neck, which sent Ethan stumbling back. "If you wanted a damn tea party, then try Daniela. I'm not here to hold your hand and become your best friend." She pointed her knife at Ethan, which concealed the slightest tremble. "I'm here to fight."
"Okay…" Ethan rubbed a hand to his lipstick-smeared neck, looking at the red coating his palm. This was as much as he would get out of Cassandra for the night, probably. He'd need to wait until she cooled off until he attempted to do any more digging. "Let's fight, then."
It was the beginning of the end the moment Ethan brought Bela into the conversation. Cassandra's refined technique lost its sharp edge. She swung wide, leaving herself exposed in her desperation to land strikes on Ethan. Much like Ethan's own anger, Cassandra's fury was her Achilles' Heel.
Ethan skirted around the edge of Cassandra's range. When her one-two tempo of wide attacks resurfaced, Ethan struck. On the backswing of her second downward swing – aimed for his head – Ethan met her at the wrist with his armed hand. He pivoted, grabbing her hand with his left. He swung his forearm into the flat of Cassandra's wooden knife. It stripped the knife from her fingers, disarming her.
The surprise flashed across Cassandra's face, but it was soon replaced by anger. She effortlessly caught Ethan's arm when he made to swing for her face. Limbs interlocked once more – but this time, with Ethan very much armed, while Cassandra wasn't, he opened his mouth to tell her to call it quits.
Cassandra instead jerked to one side, yanking Ethan's knife hand to the side to pull him off balance. The clarity struck Ethan in time, just as Cassandra swung her foot forward to gain momentum and reap his leg. Ethan did the smallest of hops, putting all his weight onto the opposite leg – the one Cassandra wasn't targeting. As Cassandra swung her foot back, Ethan met her halfway – reaping her leg midair.
Ethan twisted his upper body and pulled back on Cassandra's arm, countering the throw.
Cassandra landed hard, with a dull thud accompanied by a grunt. The split second of reaction time gave Ethan little choice but to follow her momentum down to the floor. He avoided crashing on top of Cassandra, and instead dropped to her side, still holding her right arm, while his armed hand inevitably found her neck.
Almost instantaneously – the moment Cassandra recovered enough of her senses – she began thrashing.
Rather than leaving her to her own devices, Ethan tried something else for a change. He tucked his head back as Cassandra's arms swung this way and that – no thought behind the movement, other than to struggle. Ethan adjusted his position on the cold stone floor, deftly wrapping his legs around Cassandra's midsection from behind to weigh her down. He dropped his karambit in favor of wrapping his right arm high over her chest – closer to her collarbone, so he wouldn't choke her. His left hand came up under her other arm to lock onto his right hand – securing the back mount.
Cassandra wriggled and thrashed, throwing her arms around as her breathing became increasingly shallow. She produced a quiet sound akin to a whimper as the panic threatened to set in, and Ethan made his attempt to curb it, for whatever it was worth.
"Hey – Cassandra, you're fine, you're safe." Ethan kept his voice low and soft. "I'm not choking you out, I'm not gonna hit you, I'm just –"
In all her squirming, Cassandra nearly crashed her elbow into Ethan's face.
"– I'm just holding onto you here, so you don't break my nose with all the thrashing." Ethan took a breath as Cassandra's wriggling diminished by a fraction. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
As the sentiment formed words and was spoken into the air, it all clicked. It came together so forcefully that Ethan was winded by it – and how he hadn't put the pieces together sooner. Cassandra had always projected such a strong presence that it was all too unbelievable and improbable for him to make the connection earlier.
Cassandra wasn't just afraid of getting hurt on the ground. She'd been traumatized by it before, and he'd ripped the bandage off during their first spar. If Cassandra's current panic was any indicator, then that trauma ran deeper and cut sharper than Ethan could begin to fathom. Only pain of that great and terrible caliber could send someone into a full-blown meltdown like this.
That had to be the case. There was no other explanation to her utter terror when finding herself on the ground in a fight. This went far, far deeper than he first thought – almost certainly even as deep back as her first life.
There was even a degree of detachment to Cassandra's panic. She was a nigh invincible bug woman – if she wanted to, she could rip Ethan to shreds without breaking a sweat, even in this very moment while locked in the mount. Hell, she didn't even need to lift a finger and resort to violence if she wanted to – she could simply slip away as a swarm of flies, and reform a few feet away.
It was as if Cassandra forgot that she was capable of such feats to distance herself from the source of her panic. That connection only solidified Ethan's new running theory – because it had to be some particularly nasty trauma to make Cassandra detach in a state of panic – to forget she had a means of escape at her fingertips.
Ethan groaned internally at how stupid he'd been – how it was right in front of his face, but in the haze of combat, it had eluded him.
Of fucking course someone who'd taken an awful beating on the ground would want to be anywhere but right back in that position – a position where they held no control and no power.
The Dimitrescu House's most fierce hunter – virtually immortal at room temperature – and she was afraid of being tackled to the ground. It wasn't something that Ethan could have ever conceived earlier on. If someone said that to him when he first arrived in the castle, he would have laughed at them.
But now – now – it all made sense. With the pieces falling into place, it couldn't be clearer, and there was nothing at all amusing about Cassandra's fear. In the aftermath of the Baker House, just the damn sound of creaking wood sent Ethan into fight or flight. The meaty sound of a defrosted steak hitting the cutting board had him jumping to retrieve his sidearm. He had his triggers, and it took an inordinate amount of therapy and time to work on overcoming them.
Ethan tried getting through to Cassandra, just as he had to Mia in her own bouts of PTSD-fueled turmoil.
"Cassandra," Ethan spoke again as her thrashing continued to diminish, "You're fine – you hear? We're just hanging around here until you –"
Ethan jerked his head back, narrowly avoiding Cassandra's elbow, and the breathless gasp that came with it. He concluded, "… until you stop trying to elbow me in the head."
The revelation had dawned on Ethan so suddenly that he wasn't prepared to adjust his script on the fly. When Ethan first started to secure the back mount, he'd considered that a little bit of immersion therapy may do Cassandra some good; maybe being grounded in a fight while no pain was inflected would ease her psyche.
But now, Ethan was second guessing himself. He hardly knew how any of this worked, after all. Being the Dimitrescu sisters' punching bag and therapist did not come with instructions or a fucking manual.
Abruptly releasing Cassandra had its own risks as well – there was no telling if she would suddenly recall her inhuman strength, and punt Ethan through a wall. This time, Bela wasn't here to bail him out. Tonight, it was only him, Cassandra, and her trauma.
Ethan had enough close calls with Mia to avoid letting Cassandra out early, before the panic subsided. The last time Ethan had released Mia during one of her bouts, it had not ended well. She turned on her heel and decked him right in the face. Ethan hadn't had time to react before he was on his back and Mia was in the full mount – desperately fighting for her life, as she couldn't tell where she was or who she was.
It was with that in mind that Ethan held Cassandra tighter – restraining her so she couldn't hurt herself, or him. She could ride out the bout of panic for as long as she needed. They would come out of it both with less bruises this way. Ethan held her securely, but not tightly enough to cause any pain. He alternated between soft shushes, and the whispers of 'you're okay,' and 'you're safe,' as the seconds rolled by into minutes.
The thrashing turned into wriggling and squirming, until finally Cassandra stilled in Ethan's arms. She eventually leaned her head back on his chest, and her hands gripped him by the arms – not to rip them away, but to simply anchor herself. Her breaths were heavy and deep, rather than shallow; it wasn't long after until she was back in full control of her faculties.
If her breathing wasn't a fair enough indicator, then Cassandra made it a point to warn him, "If you don't let me go now, I will break your nose again."
That sounded like the Cassandra that Ethan knew. He couldn't help but toss one last good-natured taunt her way, "Are you calm yet?"
A displeased grumble, and Cassandra conceded, "Yes."
"Atta girl." Ethan unwrapped himself from around Cassandra and got to his feet. He extended a hand for her to take as he asked, "We gonna call that a night?"
Cassandra looked up at Ethan for a long moment, lips parted, despite no words coming free; after a pregnant pause, she accepted his offered hand. Ethan pulled her up and gave her a hefty pat on the shoulder. "Thanks for the fight."
Ethan took a step backward – prepared to turn and depart from the armory, but Cassandra had not answered his question (or allowed him to leave). It left him standing in the middle of the room for a while longer, under Cassandra's curious, scrutinous eyes.
Finally, she waved her hand – beckoning him closer, rather than dismissing him. She turned and walked towards her table by the fireplace, not bothering to check if Ethan was following her.
It was odd, but Ethan had been learning to take it in stride. Cassandra's loaded stares seemed to be a quirk of hers, if nothing else. A lot went on in her mind, and day by day, Ethan wondered what it was that went abuzz in there. In some ways, it reminded Ethan of Bela, and how knowing she seemed whenever she looked at him.
When Cassandra looked at Ethan as long and as hard as she did, Ethan felt like he was under a microscope. Like Cassandra was trying to identify some unidentifiable facet to him. Other times, it was like Cassandra was staring right through him, because she had something else on her mind entirely, rather than the man-thing before her.
For all Ethan knew, maybe Cassandra was just trying to figure out what spice would best go with an Ethan Stew – maybe she was imagining how to properly chop him into just the right pieces. Who knows, really? Cassandra's nonverbal communication was an enigma he was still working on deciphering.
Cassandra's hands hovered over the surface of the table for a beat. Then one hand dipped down, brushing along the handle of a drawer. She tugged the drawer open, and retrieved an olive drab canteen from within. It was an old, beat-up looking thing, with a rough dent on one side; it was partially wrapped in a torn, yellowing olive cloth.
Ethan raised a brow, but kept his thoughts to himself. If Cassandra preferred her water-holders to look like they saw the rise and fall of the USSR, then that was her own business – Ethan wouldn't judge.
Cassandra next procured two small glasses – shot glasses, Ethan realized – from the same drawer. A clean cloth was procured next, which Cassandra used to swiftly wipe down the glasses. When the canteen's cap came unscrewed, the potent smell of vodka immediately hit the air. The nearly clinical scent made Ethan's eyes water by just a smidge.
Cassandra poured two shots into the glasses and picked up the first. Wordlessly, she offered it to Ethan, and looked him in the eyes.
Ethan had expected this night to go many ways, but this was not one of them. Hell must be freezing now.
"Is this a thing now? We doing shots after training?" Ethan cracked a small smile to lighten the tense air around Cassandra. When she didn't respond, and continued leveling her halfhearted glare at Ethan, he added, "My partying days are mostly behind me now, hope you don't mind. Wouldn't say no to a beer, though."
There was no amusement on Cassandra's poker face as she commanded him, "Drink, man-thing."
The shot of vodka was extended forward, and Ethan's eyes darted between the clear glass and the brunette making the offer. Cassandra wasn't taking no for an answer.
Shrugging his shoulders, Ethan accepted the glass, raising it to his face once to take a whiff of the potent –
He suppressed a shiver.
Very potent alcohol.
Cassandra in all her mystery and silence, continued watching Ethan for a long couple of seconds – as if his reaction to the alcohol was some kind of intricate test. She remained perfectly impassive, save for the signature tap-tap-tap of her right pointer finger against her leggings.
When she was finally satisfied, Cassandra turned around and retrieved the second glass. She raised her glass forward, and Ethan returned the gesture in kind.
"Noroc," Cassandra muttered as they toasted, producing a light clink. She tossed her head back to down the shot, and Ethan took that as his cue to follow.
The vodka had remained cold in the canteen, and it went down smoothly, but just as quickly lit Ethan's throat up with warmth. The faintest grainy taste persisted through the potency of the alcohol, and Ethan had to admit it wasn't the most unpleasant shot he'd ever taken. It was good vodka, albeit ridiculously strong.
Ethan smacked his lips, turning the empty shot glass over in his hands. The pleased hum came out of its own accord before he told her, "This is pretty good." He cleared his throat and quipped, "Normally though, the point is to rehydrate after a workout. Not the opposite."
Cassandra rolled her eyes and snatched the shot glass from his hand. She set the two glasses down and immediately refilled them with the canteen. Before long, Cassandra pressed the renewed vodka shot into Ethan's hands. Though this time, Cassandra did not toast and down her glass. Instead, she held it in her hand, eyes fixed to the clear alcohol, but appearing like she was staring right through it.
"Tell me – would you rather enjoy your drink now," Cassandra spoke more to the glass than to Ethan, "Or look back at this moment as a shriveled old man, and think of all the shots you did not take?"
A soft furrow formed at Ethan's brow, and he had to suppress the 'what the fuck?' on the tip of his tongue. Such existential talk from Cassandra was unprecedented, and Ethan was left stunned for several long moments. He masked his confusion as he did best – making dumb jokes, "Vodka isn't that big a part of my life. I don't think I'll be lamenting over the shots I missed."
Cassandra tore her eyes from the glass in her hands – settling them on Ethan. She reached out to swipe a finger across the side of Ethan's neck. "It was a good fight." She raised her finger for Ethan to see; it was smeared red with the lipstick Cassandra had slashed onto his neck. "Good fights are worth the commemoration."
It wasn't all too different from getting drinks with the Hound Wolves after a long day of beating each other senseless. It was the closest comparison Ethan could draw upon.
The vodka swirled in the glass in Cassandra's hand as she returned to studying the perfectly translucent liquid. "We had a good fight, and we live to fight another day." Cassandra raised the shot glass, pausing. "Being alive is worth the commemoration."
Ethan could drink to that. Good fights and living to fight more of them – it was like being right back with the Hound Wolves. The only weird part of this – the absolutely bizarre part – was that it was coming from Cassandra. This reflective side of her was new to him, and as he didn't know any better up until this point, seemed very uncharacteristic of her.
Ethan followed Cassandra's cue when she began to tilt the glass back, downing the next shot in one go. He cleared his throat as the alcohol warmed his head and prickled across the back of his mouth. Cassandra recovered his shot glass, placing it down with hers next to the canteen.
Curiously, Ethan asked, "Just the two shots?"
Cassandra's gaze met Ethan's, and she offered a ghost of a smile. "Just two. The first shot is to my health, and the second," Cassandra gave Ethan a hearty pat on the shoulder, "is to yours."
It sounded like a tradition if Ethan had ever heard one. For the time being, he refrained from inquiring about its origins. Pushing one's luck with Cassandra was a balancing act, and Ethan was keen to succeed at it.
The brunette to Ethan's side was occupying herself with wiping the glasses down. He took that time to study her, and the apparent duality to her behavior. This person before him with her almost friendly nature – drinking to his health, and to good fights to come – it looked like he was getting glimpses of the Cassandra behind the bloody façade she put on. She was a completely different person.
Rather than dwell on it for too long, Ethan chimed, "Not sure if I should be flattered that you're okay with drinking to my health."
Without missing a beat, Cassandra spoke without even looking up from the shot glasses. "Oh, don't worry. I'll still gut you the moment Miranda has no more use for you."
Just as swiftly, Ethan shot back, "Fuck you."
Cassandra glanced at Ethan from the corner of her eye, and a smile tugged at her lips. The combination of mischief and amusement in her eyes got a soft laugh out of Ethan. He also made the mental note of how Cassandra dropped Mother Miranda's honorific title – in the same way Bela does.
Once the glasses were cleaned, Cassandra turned to face Ethan, leaning her hip against the desk. "I wanted to ask, where did you learn to fight?" It was curious to see that purposefully blank, bored, and completely disinterested expression return to Cassandra's face. "I have never met a man-thing as infuriatingly skilled and irritating as you. How did you become so proficient?"
Cassandra's interest was a good thing. The more she got to know Ethan, the less he would be a nameless punching bag. Ethan obliged, but kept it simple, "I got into some deep shit three years ago. Got out of that in one piece somehow, with some help."
Ethan avoided Cassandra's piercing eyes for a moment. A chill ran down his spine, sending a shiver throughout his body, which he struggled to lock down. The images of the twisted denizens of the Baker House came at him a mile a minute. The smell of rot and mold and death assailed his airways, tempting Ethan to take a whiff of the vodka to block it out.
No matter how much Ethan had come to terms with the Baker Incident, it never failed to elicit physiological reactions from him.
"I never wanted to feel that helpless again, so I got some training from the best." Ethan paused, eyes coming back to meet Cassandra. She listened patiently with that impassive look on her features. "Same guy that Miranda, your mom, and pretty much everyone in this valley is trying to kill. Chris Redfield."
The name on its own didn't appear to invoke any strong reaction from Cassandra, but she nodded in understanding. There was more of a connection for Cassandra with how Chris was giving her mother problems, rather than the man's extensive background in dealing with beings like them. It seemed Bela was the only one in the castle – aside from perhaps Lady Dimitrescu herself – who was aware of the caliber of Chris' threat.
That was probably for the better. If Cassandra understood the full extent of the threat Chris posed – and by extension, the threat Ethan posed – it would spell doom for his attempts at establishing an amicable relationship with her. The last thing he needed was to undo all his progress with Cassandra.
"You learned all that from him?" Cassandra asked, "The fighting, the knives, the grappling – all of that from one man?"
"Yeah," Ethan shrugged, but clarified, "Him and his team…"
A pang of hurt came from Ethan's chest, before he was quite prepared for it. The sting of betrayal was a sharp, bitter one, and it was one Ethan still hadn't gotten to truly wrap his head around.
Under his breath, Ethan muttered, "My team."
Ethan was one of them. He was one of them, and they helped Chris murder Mia anyway. Rolando, John, Charlie, Emily, Dion – they were his friends, and they all bonded with him, just as they did with Mia – but that clearly didn't stop them from shooting Mia – their friend – to bits and taking Rose. They all had Mia's blood on their hands, and they all had to answer for it, the same as Chris.
"If they are your team…" Cassandra tilted her head. "Should they not have attempted to free you by now?"
Bela had mentioned the slew of reasons why Ethan couldn't be broken out so easily. But Ethan wasn't about to go and tell Cassandra all of that. She could know the equally valid reason for now.
"Yeah, well," Ethan's voice grew heavy, "they stopped being my team the moment they helped Chris shoot my wife dead."
The surprise bloomed across Cassandra's face. "They killed your wife?" Just as quickly, the emotionless mask slipped back into place. Her voice sounded flat and detached when she asked, "When?"
Ethan looked Cassandra in the eyes. "Same night Bela locked me up."
A moment passed, and Cassandra joined her hands together in front of her – holding onto each other as if to keep them still. She released a thoughtful hum before asking, "What did she do to end up in their crosshairs?"
"Nothing," Ethan's reply was quick as a whip, and just as sharp. The anger flooded his body, warming his chest as he growled out, "She didn't do a fucking thing to deserve being put down like a dog."
Cassandra's stare did not relent. She bore into Ethan, and this time, he didn't back down. Their gazes remained locked – Cassandra, scrutinous and analytical – and Ethan, silently challenging her to dare assume Mia deserved the fate she had been dealt.
Ethan could tolerate a lot of crap from Cassandra's big mouth, but not about this. If Cassandra even thought to question Mia's demise, he would make her regret it.
He wasn't expecting any sympathy either. Cassandra wasn't like her more emotionally open sisters. Bela had been very empathetic. Daniela had been downright remorseful. Cassandra was simply silent; her face was so neutral that it couldn't be any more obvious that she was hiding any and all emotion, for whatever reason.
When Cassandra finally spoke, it was to dismiss him with a brief, "I'll see you tomorrow, man-thing."
A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read! Do be sure to drop some faves and follows on the way out!
Okay, so first things first, I'm making a small, temporary change to my writing process. I'm going to take a break from responding to reviews for a while (since I can't disable them outright). It's a decision that came about after much deliberation with my editor. This will allow me to focus more on my writing, and the story as I've mapped it out and planned it, especially now while working on this tricky arc. I encourage you, the readers, to just sit back and enjoy the ride for the next few chapters. Let's let the Cassandra arc reach its peak, whatever that may be, and then you fellas can ambush me with your reactions (hopefully positive; I'm crossing my fingers) then.
Once again, I had fun with this one, but that seems to just come naturally when writing Cassandra. Shaking it up with knives was enjoyable, in that it was a different thing to *choreograph*. I hope it translated well enough. If not, gimme a few months, and I'll have a video of me recreating that fight with a friend of mine, haha!
The lipstick bit is one of the IRL training practices I've done at least once, so I wanted to slip that in here.
I personally liked how I ended the chapter. Cass is certainly a multi-faceted person, no? Anyone wanna toast some vodka with Cass after sparring? Lord knows I do, haha!
Anyway, as usual, check out the socials over at linktr . ee / sylvesterm . The Q&A for June just went up, where I answered some certified hood classics, like "Will BAW ever have smut?". There's also some fun BTS notes over there, along with some peeks behind the curtain of the videos I watched as refreshers for some of the fight choreography!
Next chapter should go up on the weekend of the 17th, or earlier, if y'all are lucky. Until then, hope you all stay safe out there. See you around!
