CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: A LONG WAY

In her first sparring session, she faced Damian Wayne. 

The mats in the manor's lower training wing smelled like sweat and old leather. It was a scent Taylor knew well by now—comforting in a strange, almost grim way.

But this was different.

This was one of the Batfamily's training rooms.

Here, pain was a teacher. And every mistake had an audience.

She rolled her shoulders, sweat beading at her brow, muscles tight from the last round of drills.

Across from her, Damian Wayne adjusted his stance with the same smugness he carried everywhere. Arms loose, chin tilted ever so slightly up, like he was already bored.

"You leave your left side open too often," he said coolly. "Sloppy."

Taylor narrowed her eyes. "You going to keep talking or actually spar?"

Dick, watching from the sidelines, raised his brows but said nothing. Barbara was beside him, arms folded, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Damian didn't answer—he just moved.

He was fast. Almost faster than she could track.

His first strike came without warning: a quick jab aimed for her jaw. She twisted under it just in time, feeling the brush of air where the impact should’ve landed. No windup. He wasn’t trying to test her defenses; he was trying to end the exchange before it started.

Taylor bent low, months of muscle memory taking over as she slipped inside his reach, driving her shoulder toward his ribs with a surge of momentum.

He didn’t resist. He flowed with it.

His body twisted just enough to deflect the worst of the impact, turning her force against itself. Before she could reset her footing, he was already pivoting—his leg sweeping out in a low arc, aimed to take her off balance.

She jumped, barely clearing it. Her back foot landed sloppy—half off the line she needed—but she used it anyway, twisting into a tight elbow strike toward his neck.

He blocked with his forearm, the impact reverberating through both of them, jarring but clean. He responded immediately: palm strike, heel kick, a flurry of blows that tested her guard from multiple angles.

She gave ground, but not because she was losing. She needed space. Needed time to adjust. Every exchange was a conversation, and this one was fluent. Neither of them had the upper hand for more than a breath.

They circled each other in the designated space, the air thick with heat and tension. Breathing steady. Eyes sharp. No more taunts. No dramatics. Just intent.

He struck again, a hook that feinted left and turned into a rising elbow.

Taylor backed away from it, then quickly stepped in close, and caught his arm. She used his own momentum to lever him sideways, dragging him toward a grapple—but he slipped free before she could lock it in. Rolled across the floor, came up on one knee, and smiled faintly.

Not smug. Just impressed.

She didn’t smile back.

They lunged at each other again.

The tempo shifted.

Damian came at her hard—no theatrics, no wasted flair. Just clean, almost surgical aggression. His strikes were quick and disciplined, each one flowing into the next with the kind of skill only years of brutal training could produce. It wasn’t showy because it didn’t need to be. 

Taylor didn’t have the same pedigree. But she’d survived fights where hesitation meant dying. Where the difference between living and bleeding out was a split-second choice. Her style was rougher, less refined—closer to violence than martial art. But it was effective. And it was hers.

She absorbed a body shot, twisting with the impact to kill the momentum. His elbow came next—fast, sharp. She ducked under it and caught his wrist mid-motion, yanking him towards her roughly.

And then she headbutted him.

Not full force. Just enough.

Their foreheads cracked together, and Damian reeled a fraction—more surprised than hurt, blinking through the daze.

That was the moment.

Taylor surged in, jamming an elbow into his sternum. The breath left him in a tight gasp. He staggered, just a half-step—nothing anyone else would’ve caught. 

But she wasn't most people.

She stepped into his space, hooked behind his knee, and brought him down.

Hard.

The mat caught the thud with a muffled echo. She followed him down, fluid and fast, pinning him before he could reset. One knee pressed into his sternum—not enough to hurt, just to pin. Her hand hovered near his throat, fingers spread.

Not choking. Not even threatening. Just a statement.

They locked eyes.

Damian didn’t look surprised. He looked… annoyed. But not at her. At himself.

Taylor didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Didn’t break the moment with words.

She just breathed.

And after a second, his voice came—tight, but steady.

“Again.”

She climbed off and backed away, shaking out her hand and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Dick gave a low whistle. "Well. That settles the over-under on this week's betting pool."

Barbara didn't smile, but she gave Taylor a small nod. Approval, maybe. Or acknowledgement.

Damian stood slowly, brushing himself off with the calculated calm of someone trying not to look rattled.

"You got lucky," he muttered.

Taylor met his gaze evenly. "No. I didn't."

He didn't argue.