Chapter 17 – Morgan
Seventeen
Playing Pretend
Morgan
Several hours after my impromptu coffee date with Sam, I was wrapped in Lance's arms.
We'd been up half the night with Lance working through his jealousy about Sam's obvious interest in me, and me trying to reassure him that no amount of patient, sweet guys could ever compare to him.
The reassuring had involved a lot of naked convincing. Seriously… Lance had been on a mission.
Now my back was pressed against his chest, his arm heavy across my waist, both of us finally relaxed enough to sleep deeply. Lance's breathing was even and steady, his face peaceful in a way it rarely was when he was awake.
No tension.
The sharp knock on the bedroom door shattered the quiet like a gunshot.
"Morgan? Lance? Everybody decent? Or shall I fetch the bleach for my eyes?” Micah's voice carried through the wood, way too cheerful for whatever ungodly hour this was. "I know you're in there."
Lance went from dead asleep to fully alert in the space of a heartbeat, his body tensing behind me like a coiled spring. His hand moved instinctively toward the nightstand where I knew he kept a gun.
Always ready for danger, even in sleep.
"Fuck," he muttered against my hair. "What time is it?"
I squinted at the clock on my nightstand. “Five-thirty."
"In the morning?" Lance's voice was rough with sleep and irritation.
Another knock, more insistent this time. "Come on, you two. I can hear you whispering in there."
Of course he can.
I groaned and burrowed deeper into Lance's chest, pulling the covers over my head like that would make Micah disappear.
Go away. Whatever it is can wait.
"Morgan," Micah called out, his tone taking on that dangerous edge I recognized from training sessions. "You've got five minutes to get dressed, or I'm coming in there to drag you out myself."
He wouldn't.
"He absolutely would," Lance said, apparently reading my mind. "And I'd have to kill him for seeing you naked, which would be inconvenient for everyone involved."
“Inconvenient. That's one way to put it.”
I sat up slowly, the sheet pooling around my waist. Lance's eyes immediately went to my bare chest, and for a moment, I thought he might say screw Micah and everything else.
Focus, Morgan.
"What does he want?" I mumbled, reaching for the t-shirt I'd abandoned on the floor last night.
"Training, probably." Lance stretched, all lean muscle and casual grace. "I may have mentioned that I wanted him to work with you today."
Oh. Right.
Lance had said that he would go too easy on me during our sessions, and he couldn't separate husband-Lance from trainer-Lance.
"Four minutes!" Micah announced.
I rolled out of bed, ignoring Lance's protesting noise when I took the sheet with me. My legs were still a little shaky from last night's activities, and I had to grab the dresser for balance.
Worth every ache.
"Why can't we train later?" I called out as I pulled on yoga pants. "Like normal people who aren't awake at dawn?"
"Because normal people don't have Charles DuLac trying to kill them," came Micah's dry response through the door. "And because Lance has been going too easy on you, which means you're not learning what you need to learn."
There it is.
Lance sat up in bed, running both hands through his sleep-messed hair. He looked stupidly attractive with the morning light streaming across his bare chest and that guilty expression on his face.
"It's not that I go easy on you," he said, but his tone suggested he knew that was exactly what he did.
"Lance." I turned and leveled a gaze at him. "You stopped our last session because I scraped my knuckles on the heavy bag."
"You were bleeding."
"It was a tiny scrape."
"You were in pain."
And that's the problem.
Lance couldn't stand to see me hurt, even hurt that was necessary for learning. Even a hurt that might save my life someday.
He loves me too much to train me properly.
"Two minutes!" Micah's voice was getting impatient.
I finger-combed my hair into something resembling order and grabbed a hair tie from the nightstand. Lance was still in bed, watching me with that expression that meant he was cataloging every detail of my appearance.
"Are you going to get up, or are you planning to let Micah drag me away in my pajamas?" I asked.
"I'm considering my options." His voice had gone dark and possessive. "Option one involves locking the door and keeping you in bed for the rest of the day."
That's tempting. Really tempting.
"And option two?"
"Option two involves me getting dressed and coming downstairs to watch Micah kick your ass, then spending the rest of the day planning creative ways to murder him for it."
There's the Lance I know and love.
I leaned down to kiss him goodbye, and he caught the back of my neck, deepening the kiss until I was dizzy and breathless.
This is not helping.
"Time's up!" Micah announced, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.
He has a key. Of course he has a key.
"Don't come in here!" I called out, pulling away from Lance with a gasp.
"Then get out here. We have work to do."
Lance's jaw clenched, and I could see him fighting the urge to tell Micah exactly where he could shove his training schedule.
"I'll be fine," I said, reading the worry in his eyes.
"I know you will be." He reached for his clothes, moving with the fluid efficiency of someone who'd had to dress quickly under pressure more times than he cared to count. "But Micah's right. I have been going too easy on you."
"Morgan!" Micah's voice was right outside the door now. "I'm counting to three, and then I'm coming in."
He's really going to do it.
"I'm coming!" I called back, then turned to Lance. "We'll talk later."
He nodded, but I could see the tension in every line of his body. The knowledge that he was about to watch someone else do what he couldn't bring himself to do.
Push me. Really push me. Hard enough that I might actually get hurt.
I found Micah in the hallway, dressed in workout clothes and looking annoyingly alert for someone who'd probably been up until all hours doing whatever it was dangerous men did in their spare time.
No wonder he and Lance get along. They're both ridiculously attractive and completely insane.
"Finally," he said when he saw me. "I was starting to think I'd have to make good on my threat."
"You wouldn't have actually come into the bedroom."
His grin was wicked and completely unrepentant. "Want to test that theory?"
No. No I do not.
I followed Micah onto the mats, the soft surface giving slightly under my feet. Everything smelled like leather and sweat and that particular scent of a space dedicated to pushing physical limits.
This feels different from training with Lance.
With Lance, there was always an undercurrent of something else. Sexual tension, emotional connection, the way he looked at me like I was precious and breakable even when he was trying to teach me to be dangerous.
With Micah, it's going to be purely business.
"Right," Micah said, turning to face me. "What's Lance been teaching you?"
"Basic self-defense. How to use a knife. Some hand-to-hand combat."
"Show me the hand-to-hand."
Before I could ask what he meant, he was moving toward me, not fast, but with clear intent. I reacted on instinct, the way Lance had taught me, bringing my knee up toward his groin while simultaneously striking out with my palm toward his nose.
Micah caught both attacks easily, barely having to adjust his stance.
Shit.
"Not terrible," he said, releasing me. "But you're telegraphing every move. I saw what you were going to do before you did it."
That's what Lance always says.
"The problem," Micah continued, "is that Lance can't bear to actually put you in danger, even fake danger. So you've learned techniques, but you haven't learned to use them under pressure."
"What does that mean?"
Instead of answering, Micah moved behind me, his arm snaking around my throat in a chokehold that was firm but not tight enough to actually cut off my air.
"You've got five seconds to get out of this before I increase the pressure," he said calmly.
Five seconds.
I tried the technique Lance had taught me, grabbing Micah's arm and dropping my weight to throw him off balance. But Micah was ready for it, adjusting his stance so that I couldn't budge him.
This isn't working.
Three seconds.
Panic started to creep in as I realized the moves Lance had taught me weren't effective against someone who knew all the counters.
Two seconds.
Without thinking, I drove my elbow back as hard as I could, aiming for his ribs. Micah twisted away, but not fast enough, my elbow connected with solid muscle and I felt him grunt.
The arm around my throat loosened immediately.
"Much better," he said, sounding pleased despite the fact that I'd probably bruised his ribs. "That's what I'm talking about."
I actually hurt him.
The realization was strange. Not satisfying, exactly, but... empowering. Like I'd proven something to myself.
"Again," Micah said.
We ran through scenario after scenario. Micah grabbing me from behind, from the side, pinning me against the wall. Each time, he gave me a time limit and consequences for not escaping fast enough.
Consequences being that he actually followed through on the attack.
Not enough to seriously hurt me, but enough that I understood what failure would mean in a real situation.
Lance would never put me in a position where I might actually get hurt, even in training. His protective instincts wouldn't let him. But Micah had no such limitations.
And I need that.
I needed to know what it felt like to be in real danger. To feel that spike of adrenaline that sharpened everything, made me faster, stronger, and more focused than I thought possible.
To stop being afraid of my own strength.
"You're getting it," Micah said after I successfully broke free from a particularly difficult hold and followed up with a strike that would have been devastating if I'd committed to it fully. "Finally."
I was covered in sweat, my muscles screaming, but I felt more alive than I had in weeks. Every nerve ending was on fire, every sense heightened.
This is what Lance feels like all the time.
This clarity. This awareness of every threat and opportunity around you. This confidence in your own ability to handle whatever came next.
"How do you feel?" Micah asked.
"Like I could take on the world."
His grin was proud. "That's the idea."
"I still think Lance could have trained me."
Micah was quiet for a moment, studying my face like he was trying to decide how much truth I could handle.
"Lance loves you," he said finally. "More than I've ever seen him love anything. And loving someone the way he loves you makes it impossible to hurt them, even when hurting them might save their life."
"So you don't love me?"
"I love you like a sister. Which means I can hurt you without it destroying me." Micah's expression was serious now, all traces of humor gone. "Lance can't make that separation. When he sees you in pain, he feels it like it's his own."
"I know. But I’m strong." I said.
"It's human,” he said with a shrug. “But it's also going to get you killed if you're not properly prepared for what might be coming."
The phrase sent a chill down my spine. Not because I was afraid of whatever Charles DuLac might send our way, but because I was afraid of not being ready for it.
Of being the weak link that gets everyone else hurt.
"Teach me more," I said.
Micah nodded approvingly. "That's what I was hoping you'd say."
We trained for another hour, until my shirt was soaked with sweat and my muscles were on fire. But with each scenario, each technique, I felt stronger. More capable.
More dangerous.
And for the first time since this whole nightmare started, I felt like I might actually be able to protect myself.
To protect the people I love.
When we finally finished, I was exhausted but exhilarated. Like I'd discovered something about myself that I'd never known existed.
"You did good today," Micah said as we sat on the edge of the boxing ring, sharing a bottle of water. "Really good."
"It felt different. Training with you versus training with Lance."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Necessary different." I took a long drink, trying to organize my thoughts. "Lance sees me as someone who needs to be protected. You see me as someone who can learn to protect herself."
Both perspectives have merit.
I wanted to be protected by Lance, wanted to be precious to him, wanted to be worth his careful consideration. But I also needed to be able to stand on my own if it came to that.
And it probably will come to that, eventually.
"Don't be too hard on Lance," Micah said quietly. "What he's doing, trying to keep you safe while also preparing you for danger. It's an impossible balance. Especially when you're the most important thing in his world."
The most important thing in his world.
The phrase made my chest tight with emotion. Because that's what I was to Lance, wasn't it? Not just his wife, but his reason for existing. His purpose.
His everything.
"I know," I said. "I just need him to trust that I can handle more than he thinks I can."
"He's learning. But it's going to take time." Micah stood up, stretching muscles that had been pushed just as hard as mine. "In the meantime, we'll keep working together. Until you're ready for whatever comes next."
Whatever comes next.
I nodded, because what else could I do? This was my life now, training to fight battles I'd never wanted to face, preparing for violence I'd never asked for.
But I was determined to be able to protect myself. No one was going to die for me.