Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Control is rare for her in this mess.
Training gives some back.
“Okay,” I say. “But we go slow. No overextending. You tweak something out here, there’s no urgent care.”
She salutes with two fingers. “Yes, Dad.”
“I’m never telling you serious things again,” I mutter, setting my mug down and stepping into the makeshift “mat.”
She pads over, bare feet silent on the worn rug. Up close, she smells like toothpaste and coffee and my t-shirt. “Partner?” she asks, light but with that steady line under it.
Always.
“Partner,” I say.
We start with the basics she showed me yesterday.
I grab her wrist; she circles out.
She grabs my arm; I practice breaking the hold like she taught me.
We move into the rear grabs again, the choke releases. She corrects my stance, taps my knee when my weight’s wrong, pushes my shoulders until my posture is better.
“Again,” she says, brow furrowed in focus.
“You’re bossy,” I tell her, trying to keep my breathing even.
“You like it,” she says without missing a beat.
She’s not wrong.
Our movements become more fluid. The line between teacher and student blurs. She’ll show me something, then I’ll tweak it, then she’ll test me, then I’ll test her.
We’re close a lot.
Krav Maga doesn’t have much respect for personal space.
My hands circle her wrists, her forearms, her shoulders. Hers land on my chest, my biceps, my ribs.
It’s contact with purpose, not lingering.
But my body doesn’t always care about the distinction.
At one point, I go to demonstrate a defense from a front grab. I tell her to choke me—hands at my throat, fingers curved, gentle pressure.
She hesitates. “I’m not actually going to crush your windpipe, Knight,” she mutters. “I know the difference.”
“Just do it,” I say, trying to sound normal.
She steps in. Her fingers wrap around my throat.
Not tight. Not painful.
Just there.
Every nerve I own sits up and takes notice.
Her body is close enough that I can feel heat radiating off her. Her chest almost touches mine. Her breath fans my face. “Okay,” she says, eyes serious. “Now what, oh wise one?”
It takes a second for my brain to switch from kiss her to demonstrate life-saving technique.
I grasp her wrists, stepping to the side, rotating out, using my shoulder to break the line of pressure, pivoting my hips.
She lets go.
I move through the motion mechanically, suddenly very aware of how loud my heartbeat feels in my ears.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
She cocks her head, eyes narrowing. “Your face does that thing when you’re lying.”
“What thing?”
“Gets even more tragically handsome,” she says.
A short, helpless laugh escapes me. “You’re ridiculous,” I say.
“You like that too,” she shoots back.
Also not wrong.
We keep going.
I run her through a combo—knee to the thigh, elbow to the ribs, heel to the instep, run. She practices on me, her body moving with growing confidence, movements sharper each time.
She’s stunning like this.
Focused.
Strong.
Not a girl who hides in the back row.
A weapon tuned to her own survival.
“Again,” she pants after we do a full-speed run.
“You’re going to burn out,” I warn.
“One more.”
I sigh but nod.
She steps in to simulate the grab. Her hands land on my shoulders this time instead of my throat, fingers digging in like she means it. Her face is inches from mine, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed. “Try something new,” she says. “Improvise.”
My brain offers exactly one suggestion, and it has nothing to do with martial arts.
I ignore it.
Mostly.
I cover her hands with mine, step in, pivot my hips the way I’m supposed to—except instead of executing the throw, I let the momentum take us in a slightly different direction.
Her back hits the wall with a soft thud.
Her eyes fly wide.
I plant one hand beside her head, the other still wrapped around her wrist, pinning it gently but firmly near the wall.
Her chest rises and falls against mine with each breath.
We’re both breathing harder from the drills.
“This feels less like self-defense,” she says, voice not quite steady.
“It’s a versatile move,” I manage.
There’s a beat where I know I should step back.
Laugh it off.
Reset.
Instead, I just… look at her.
At the way her lips part on a small inhale.
At the flecks of gold in her irises.
At the faint sheen of sweat at her hairline.
The need to kiss her isn’t a spike anymore. It’s a steady, rolling tide that’s been climbing all morning, lapping at my ribs.
Last night’s kiss took the edge off the immediate craving.
It also made it worse.
Because now I know exactly how she tastes when she relaxes into me.
Now I know exactly what sound she makes when I deepen the kiss and slide a hand up her spine.
“Knight,” she says softly.
“Yeah?”
“This feels like a bad idea,” she whispers. “In a really… compelling way.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah,” I say. “It does.” My hand loosens on her wrist, sliding down to lace our fingers instead. Her palm is warm and slightly damp, grip tightening around mine like she’s anchoring herself too.