Chapter 9 #2
She appears in the doorway exactly on time. Workout clothes cling to curves I shouldn't notice. Black leggings, grey tank top that rides up as she stretches her arms overhead. Her hair is pulled back, baring the long, pale line of her throat.
An invitation.
She's not made for me. She's young and needs help. That's all you fucking creep.
"Morning." Her voice is tight, but her chin is high. All pride, even when she's scared. It's the part of her that will get her killed. It's also the part I can't resist even if I've seen little of it so far.
"You're on time. Good."
She steps into the room, her eyes scanning the weapon displays. "This is... intense."
"This is necessary."
The floor light catches the gold flecks in her irises as she faces me fully. Determination burns there. The same fire that's going to get her killed if she doesn't learn control.
"Warm-up first. Follow my lead."
I move through basic stretches, keeping my eyes forward while hyperaware of her movements in my peripheral vision. She mirrors me, natural grace in every motion despite her inexperience.
When she bends forward to touch her toes, that tank top gaps at the back, revealing smooth skin and the knobs of her spine.
Professional. Fucking. Distance.
The words are a mantra I can't make myself believe.
"Flexibility matters more than strength in knife work." I force my voice steady. "Speed over power."
"Like dancing?"
"Like survival."
We face each other on the mats. Three feet of space separate us.
"First rule of knife fighting. Your stance determines everything."
I demonstrate, feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, body angled to present a smaller target. She copies me, adjusting quickly when I point out her mistakes. Quick learner. Adaptable.
"Good. Now the grip."
I pull a training knife from the rack. Dulled edge but proper weight. The metal warms in my palm as I show her the hammer grip, blade extending from the bottom of her fist.
"Never hold it like they do in movies." I move closer, studying her form. "That gets you disarmed or dead."
She takes the knife, wrapping her fingers around the handle. Wrong angle, too tight, thumb in the wrong position.
"May I?"
She nods, and I step behind her, reaching around to adjust her grip. My chest brushes her back. My hands cover hers, repositioning her fingers, and she fits against me like she was designed for this space.
"Relax your hand slightly." My voice drops lower than intended. "Too tight and you'll tire quickly."
"Like this?" She shifts her grip, the movement pressing her back more firmly against me.
My body betrays me. Heat pools low, my cock stirring against the rough fabric of my pants. A reaction I can't afford and can't stop.
"Better." The word comes out rough. "Now, the basic thrust."
I should step back. Should put distance between us. Instead, I guide her arm through the motion, our bodies moving together in a rhythm that has nothing to do with combat and everything to do with the heat building between us.
"You've held a knife before."
"Kitchen knives." Her voice catches slightly. "My mother taught me to cook. Said every woman should know how to feed herself and..." She trails off, sadness flickering across her features before she locks it down. "And defend herself if needed."
Smart woman, her mother. Too bad she couldn't defend against cancer.
"Good foundation." I force myself back, cold air rushing between us. "Again. Solo this time."
She moves through the thrust, adjusting when I correct her elbow position, her stance. Natural instincts emerge with each repetition. The Torrino blood shows they might be brutal, but they're survivors.
"Now, throwing stance."
This requires repositioning. I circle her, examining angles, fighting the urge to touch more than necessary.
"Hips here." My hands grip her waist, rotating her torso slightly.
She presses back against me. Her breath hitches. A slow exhale against my back.
She's testing me.
Pushing.
A goddamn kitten playing with a wolf, with no idea the kind of fire she's stoking.
"Focus." The command comes out as a growl.
"I am." Breathy response, double meaning clear as crystal.
Heat floods through me. My hands tighten on her hips before I force them to relax.
Professional. Fucking. Distance.
"Throw from your core, not your arm." I demonstrate with my own knife, the blade sinking into the target twenty feet away. "Power comes from rotation."
She nods, adjusting her stance without prompting. Smart. She watches everything, cataloging movements and corrections.
"Breathe in, rotate, release on the exhale."
The first throw goes wide. The second bounces off the target. The third—
The blade sinks deep, just left of center.
"I did it." She spins in my arms, face bright with triumph, young and alive and so fucking beautiful it steals my breath. "Did you see—"
We're too close. Her face tilts up toward mine, lips parted in celebration. My hands still rest on her hips. One inch forward and I could taste that joy, could swallow her surprise, could—
Footsteps echo in the hallway.
I step back so fast she stumbles, catching herself on the weapons rack.
"Again." The single word scrapes my throat raw. "Until you can do it without thinking."
She retrieves the knife, jaw set with determination now.
Ten more throws. Each one better than the last. She's a natural, or maybe she just needs this. The control, the power, the ability to fight back against a world trying to cage her. I understand that need. I've built my entire life around it.
"Getting cozy in here?"
Nico leans against the doorframe. His casual posture doesn't hide the calculation in his eyes as they track between Sophia and me, measuring distance, reading body language.
"Training." One word, clipped and final.
"So I see." Nico's mouth smiles, but his eyes are dissecting the space between me and Sophia, calculating.
"We'll continue tomorrow." I don't look at her as I say it.