Chapter 11
A week later, Bear wiped down the bar top with slow, deliberate strokes, keeping half an eye on the lunchtime rush. The Eagle’s Nest was packed, conversation buzzing, the scent of burgers and fries thick in the air. He poured a beer for one of the regulars, handed it off, and glanced up—just in time to see Joy weaving through the tables.
Something in his chest went tight.
She was moving differently now. Less like she was bracing for an invisible hit. More like her .
Not quite the tornado she used to be, but damn if she wasn’t getting closer.
There was color in her cheeks again. Her uniform, which had hung loose on her for too many weeks, was actually starting to fit right again. And when she laughed at something one of the customers said, it wasn’t forced.
Bear took a deep breath, letting the tension that had been coiled in his shoulders for the past month ease, just a little.
“Jesus, Bear,” Sloane said, sliding up to the bar and dropping an empty tray down with a dull thud. “I don’t know what you did, but I want to kiss you.” Her eyes, warm and relieved, followed Joy’s movements across the restaurant.
He arched an eyebrow, reaching for a clean glass. “I’m pretty sure Callum would have some thoughts on that.” He nodded toward the sheriff, who sat at the end of the bar methodically working through a burger.
“Damn right, I would,” Callum replied without looking up, his badge catching the overhead light as he reached for his glass of iced tea. A hint of amusement played at the corner of his mouth.
Sloane just grinned, nudging Bear with her elbow. “Not a real kiss. Just appreciation.” Her voice softened as she glanced back toward Joy. “She’s better, Bear. Actually better. She’s eating. She’s sleeping. She’s living again.” She shook her head, wonder and relief mingling in her expression. “Whatever you said last week, whatever you did—it worked.”
Bear shrugged, focusing intently on the glass he was polishing even though it was already spotless. “She figured it out herself.”
Sloane rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. We both know that’s bullshit.”
But she didn’t push, and neither did Callum.
None of them knew about the playhouse, and he intended to keep it that way.
Joy ducked behind the bar, grabbing a fresh pot of coffee. She glanced up, catching Bear’s eye. For the first time in too long, she smiled directly at him. Not the small, tired ones she’d been forcing for weeks. Not the brittle ones that never reached her eyes. This was real, touched with a hint of the mischief that used to dance in her gaze constantly.
Something warm and dangerous curled in Bear’s gut, spreading through his chest like wildfire. He could hardly take his eyes off her for the rest of the shift, tracking her movements across the restaurant with a focus that was probably too intense to be casual.
Everything was going better now that she had a safe place where she could actually rest at night—a crucial foundation for recovery. But maybe it was time to push her a little further.
When Joy slipped behind the bar again to grab another coffeepot, Bear caught her elbow gently. “You free this afternoon?”
She glanced up, brows lifting slightly. “Why? You need a tow or something?” That hint of teasing in her voice was another welcome return.
He snorted. “No, but you might.”
She tilted her head, cautious now. “Meaning?”
Bear kept his tone deliberately light, as if what he was suggesting wasn’t a potential minefield. “I want to show you a few self-defense moves. Get you some skills in case you ever need them again.”
She stiffened, and he saw the hesitation flicker through her expression. Just for a second, the shadow of that night passed behind her eyes.
Then it was gone, replaced by that same stubborn tilt of her chin that had defined Joy Davis since childhood. “You think I need lessons?”
“I think,” Bear said evenly, making sure to meet her gaze directly, “that everyone should know how to fight back. But especially you.”
She swallowed, eyes dropping to the counter. Her fingers tightened around the coffeepot, knuckles whitening slightly. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head—the fear battling against determination.
Then she nodded, looking back up at him. “Okay. But if I kick your ass, I’m telling everyone.”
Bear couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips, relief loosening something in his chest. “We’ll see about that, Bug.”
And just like that, the next step in getting Joy back was in motion.
* * *
The training facility at Linear Tactical was quiet this time of day. No classes running, no background chatter—just the distant hum of the heating system and the steady sound of Joy’s breathing as she stood staring at the sparring mat.
Bear watched her, noting the way she kept shifting her weight from foot to foot, rolling her shoulders like she was trying to work off nervous energy. The fluorescent lights cast stark shadows across the training area, highlighting the tension in her frame.
“You sure this is necessary?” she muttered, eyes fixed on the mat instead of him. “I mean, let’s be real—I’m not exactly a fighter.”
Bear folded his arms across his chest, studying her. “No, you’re not. But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn.”
She huffed, still not meeting his eyes. “I already tried fighting back once.” Her voice was flat, but he didn’t miss the edge of bitterness underneath. “Didn’t go so great.”
Bear’s jaw tightened. He didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough. She’d grabbed a baseball bat, thinking she could do some damage. But the bastard had ripped it from her hands like she was a damn child. She hadn’t even gotten a second swing.
Bear stepped closer, keeping his voice steady. “That’s because you didn’t know how. You were reacting on instinct, and that’s not your fault.” He waited until she finally looked up, meeting his eyes. “But instincts only help so much without training. That’s why we’re here now.”
Joy exhaled sharply, then nodded. “Fine. Where do we start?”
Bear gestured to the center of the mat. “With the basics. Stance first.”
She followed him onto the mat, but there was hesitation in her movements, like she was bracing for something to go wrong. He couldn’t blame her for that.
He stepped in, nudging her foot with his boot. “Too narrow. If someone shoves you, you’ll go down fast.” He adjusted her other foot, placing her hands where they needed to be, guarding her face. “There. You’re small. You have to use leverage. Let their size work against them.”
She let out a humorless laugh. “Right. Leverage. That worked out so well last time.”
Bear ignored the self-deprecation and reached for her wrist. “I’m going to grab you. Your job is to break free.”
The second his fingers wrapped around her wrist—lightly, barely any pressure—she went rigid. Her breath hitched, eyes going glassy. Bear saw it instantly. She wasn’t here anymore.
She was there. Back in her living room. Back in the worst night of her life. She wasn’t reacting to him—she was reacting to the Kozak brothers.
Bear let go immediately. “Bug.”
She blinked, her breath coming too fast, her free hand clenching into a fist. “Shit.”
He took a step back, keeping his voice even. “You’re safe. It’s just us.”
Joy exhaled sharply, shaking out her hands like she could physically shake off the moment. “I know, I just?—”
She swallowed hard, eyes darting to the exit like she was considering running. “I don’t think I can do this.”
Bear’s chest tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. “That’s exactly why we’re doing this.” His voice was steady, certain. “So next time, your body reacts differently.”
She didn’t answer.
Bear crouched slightly, keeping his tone light but firm. “I know you don’t feel like it, but you can do this.”
Joy still looked doubtful, but after a long moment, she nodded stiffly. The determination that had always defined her—even as a scrawny kid climbing trees taller than she should—flared in her eyes.
He grabbed a training pad and held it out in front of her. “Hit this.”
She hesitated, eyeing it like it might bite.
“Come on, Joy. No one’s judging your form. Just hit it.”
She swung—halfhearted, weak, almost apologetic.
Bear frowned. “Harder.”
She tried again, but there was no force behind it, no conviction.
“Joy.” His voice sharpened, deliberately pushing her. “You think whoever comes at you next time is going to go easy on you?”
Her lips parted slightly, something flickering in her expression—indignation, maybe. Or realization.
Then she really swung.
The first hit was decent. The second was harder. By the time she was done a few dozen hits later, she was panting, sweat dampening her hairline, but her eyes had cleared of that haunted look.
Bear nodded, satisfaction curling in his chest. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, breathless, but she still looked uncertain. And that was fine. She didn’t need to feel like she could win yet. She just needed to believe she could fight back.
They worked inside for a couple hours, drilling basic movements—breaks from grabs, defensive stances, simple strikes. Joy’s natural athleticism helped her pick things up quickly, even if her confidence still lagged behind her ability.
After a water break, they headed outside to the training yard. Bear knew she wasn’t going to like what was coming next. Turned out, he wasn’t wrong.
She stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes locked on the baseball bat he’d set on the grass between them.
And she wasn’t moving.
Bear had expected hesitation, but this was different. Joy wasn’t just wary of the bat. She was afraid of it. He could see it in the way her shoulders had drawn up toward her ears, in the shallow rhythm of her breathing, in the way she couldn’t seem to look directly at it.
She swallowed hard, her jaw clenching. “No.”
He didn’t react. Didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch between them, giving her the space to work through what she was feeling.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, and she took a shallow breath. “I don’t need this. We can do something else.”
Bear kept his voice steady. “You said you wanted to be ready next time.”
She stiffened, a flash of something like anger crossing her face. “Yeah. With my hands. Not that.” Her gaze flicked to the bat like it might lunge at her. “I already tried this, and it didn’t work.”
Bear exhaled slowly. “Again, it didn’t work because you didn’t know how to use it. Not as a weapon.” He crouched, gripping the handle of the bat, holding it out toward her. “Now, you will.”
Her throat bobbed. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t,” she snapped, eyes flashing up to his. “You weren’t there, Bear. You don’t know what it felt like. How—” She broke off, exhaling sharply, her voice cracking. “How stupid I was to think I could fight back. To think I was of any use to help save Sloane. I failed.”
Bear’s fingers tightened around the bat’s handle. She thought that was her fault.
Slowly, carefully, he set the bat back on the ground between them. “Come here.”
She hesitated but took a step closer, the tension vibrating her body like a plucked string.
He reached for her wrist—slowly—giving her the chance to pull away. When she didn’t, he guided her fingers to the bat, wrapping them around the handle over his own grip.
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t jerk away.
“It’s just wood, Bug,” he said softly. “That’s all it is. You decide what it means.”
She swallowed, her grip still loose, her shoulders still tense.
Bear didn’t let go. Not until he felt her fingers tighten, her grip shifting just slightly—not in fear, but in control.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Hold it higher on the handle. You’re not here to hit a home run. You’re here to take someone down.”
She nodded stiffly, her throat working as she swallowed. “Okay. Show me.”
Bear stepped back, giving her space, and gestured to the target—a heavy, sand-filled bag hanging from a stand a few feet away. “Aim for the vulnerable spots. Knees. Ribs. Head.”
“Head? Won’t that really hurt somebody?”
“Yes. Later, we can get into how, outside of a sparring ring, there’s no such thing as a fair fight. But for now, just know that it’s in your best interest to take them out as hard and fast as you can.”
“Okay.”
He met her gaze. “Swing through, not at. You want to put the weight of your whole body behind it. You can’t hesitate, can’t hold back. If you’re doing this, you’re doing it to put someone down and keep them down.”
It was a hard defense lesson to teach. Bear had helped out with self-defense lessons at Linear Tactical over the years and knew that a killer mind-set was something that students—particularly women—sometimes struggled with.
They wanted to defend themselves from the people attacking but didn’t want to do true damage.
Joy nodded, shifting her stance. Her first swing was like her punch had been: weak, hesitant.
“Again,” Bear said quietly.
She tried again. A little harder, but still too careful, still pulling back at the last moment.
Bear moved closer, his voice steady. “You’re still pulling back. What are you afraid of?”
She exhaled sharply, her grip tightening on the bat’s handle. “That it won’t be enough.”
Bear held her gaze, letting the weight of his next words sink in. “Then make it enough. When it comes to protecting your life, you need to abandon any idea of a fair fight. If you’re trying not to fight dirty, you’re going to lose. So you swing as hard as you can the very first time.”
Something flickered in her eyes—understanding, determination, maybe even a touch of the old Joy fire.
Then she swung.
The bat cracked against the bag, sending it swinging on its chain with a satisfying thud of impact.
Bear nodded. “Good. Again.”
She swung harder, her breath coming faster now, color rising in her cheeks.
“Again.”
The next hit had real force behind it.
“Again.”
Each swing grew more confident, more focused, until she was putting her whole body into it—no hesitation, no holding back. She kept going until her muscles were shaking, sweat dampened her temples, and she was panting with exertion.
Until the only thing in her eyes was focus.
Bear watched her, arms crossed, satisfaction curling in his chest. She was exhausted, her body aching—but she stood straighter now, shoulders back, chin up, bat gripped firmly in hands that no longer trembled.
And when she turned to face him, there was something different in her expression.
Not fear. Not hesitation.
Confidence.
“Not bad,” Bear said with a wink. “Might even be able to take me in a fight now.”
Joy rolled her eyes, breathless but grinning—a real, full grin that transformed her face. “Careful there, Bollinger. I’m the one with a bat and a teacher telling me to swing as hard as I can.”
Bear chuckled. Yeah. This was the Joy he remembered.
And he’d be damned if he ever let her lose that again.