Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lyra
“Start?” I repeat. “With what?” Though with the smoldering look in his dark eyes, I have an idea of what he’s talking about.
Is the man insatiable?
“I’ll give you a reprieve.” He pauses for an intentional beat. “For now.”
I exhale.
“Give your anticipation a chance to grow as you think about what I’m planning for you. Am I going to push you past your comfort level again?”
Squirming, I grab hold of a throw and drag it across my lap.
“What kind of requests am I going to have of you?”
Beneath the blanket, I twist my hands together. “Is this your version of foreplay, Stryker?”
Slow enough that I could pull away, Stryker leans in.
His mouth finds mine, soft at first, just a brush that makes my breath catch. Then he deepens it, sliding one of his big hands to the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wants me.
He tastes like the richest dark chocolate melted into warm cream, the ghost of coffee lingering underneath, bitter and addictive.
With deliberation, his tongue strokes mine once, twice, coaxing, until my lips feel full and tingling, a little bruised in the best way.
Heat floods me, pooling low in my belly, spreading outward until my thighs press together under the throw and I have to fight the urge to climb into his lap right here on the couch.
Finally he eases back.
My mouth is swollen, pulsing with every heartbeat, and I’m so turned on; the air itself feels like a caress.
My nipples are tight against my bra, my skin flushed and oversensitive. I’m wet—embarrassingly, instantly wet—and the ache between my legs is almost painful.
“But in this case…” He brushes his thumb across my lower lip, as if he’s savoring the damage he just did. “I thought you might want to talk. Or play a game. Share secrets.”
I should be relieved that he’s giving me a short break, but after that, his teasing question feels like a cold splash of water.
“Which do you prefer, Allie.”
“Uhm… Talking, maybe. Yeah. Talking is great. Definitely not secrets.”
“No truth or dare for you?”
“That’s a hard limit.”
“Fair enough.” He holds up a hand. “I respect that.”
Relieved, I sink a little deeper into the cushions.
He turns toward me fully, one arm along the back of the couch, his attention settling on me with that slow, deliberate intensity he uses when he’s reading a room—or reading me.
“The mirroring technique?” he says. “It’s not just for negotiations or interviews. It’s great for survival.”
My breath catches. “Survival?”
He nods once. “If you ever end up in a situation where someone’s evaluating you—deciding what to do with you—you mirror them.”
I frown a little. “Why?”
“Because it buys you time.”
His tone is controlled, and I have no problem seeing him teach this to teammates.
“I’ll show you.” He stands and offers his hand.
Frowning slightly, I take it.
When I’m standing, close enough that I feel the heat of him, he releases his grip on me.
“Like before, I want you to do exactly what I do.”
He adjusts his stance—knees bent, weight centered, shoulders angled slightly.
Not aggressive. Not passive. Just…aware.
I try to mimic him, feeling slightly awkward.
He smiles softly. “Good. Now—why does this matter? Because in a tense situation, most people expect fear, expect you to shrink. Cry. Freeze. Maybe even beg.”
He holds my gaze, steady and grounding. “When you reflect back their stance, their look, you break the pattern. Their brain stalls—just long enough for you to breathe, to think, to act. If you don’t have a weapon, time is your weapon.”
I exhale shakily. “Feels like a trick.” Much like some that my father taught me. But I didn’t learn this from him.
“It is.” His agreement is simply stated. “A good one.”
I swallow. “So…I just copy them?”
“Don’t mock them. Don’t exaggerate.” He shakes his head. “Match their posture. Their angle. Their readiness. You’re telling them without a word: You aren’t the only threat in this room.”
A shiver rolls down my spine.
“And if I’m scared?”
“Do it anyway.” His voice is a rasp now, almost a whisper. “Fear isn’t the enemy. Freezing is.”
He steps closer, close enough that I feel his breath warm against my cheek. “Remember this: Mirror them, Allie. Always mirror.”
I nod.
“It buys you time. Now say it back to me so I know you’ve got it.”
“Mirror them… Always mirror.”
He moves the coffee table out of the way, then steps back half a pace. After resetting, he drops into a posture that makes my pulse trip—shoulders squared, stance widened, chin angled down just slightly. Not threatening.
But ready.
A man evaluating threat distance.
“Don’t think. Just mirror.”
With a breath, I angle my shoulders. Shift my weight. Then I drop my knees a fraction.
His eyes flick down my form, slow and assessing. “Good. Now—watch.”
He moves again. A sharper adjustment—hips turning forty-five degrees, one foot stepping back, jaw tightening, like he’s preparing to advance.
I copy him, delayed by a beat. Late and sloppier than I’d like.
He shakes his head once. “Do it again. This time faster.”
He resets.
This time, he scans me like a hostile would—eyes cold, expression minimal, stance hardening.
A chill skitters up my arms.
He looks dangerous.
Not to me—but he looks like everything I should fear.
“Mirror me, Allie.” His tone softens a fraction. “This is what buys you the seconds.”
I force myself to move—shoulders, jaw, stance—matching line for line. My breath catches.
His gaze warms, just a little, before fading. He’s trying to teach me something potentially important.
He circles me slightly, his boots whispering against the wood floor. “Now I’m going to escalate. I’ll change posture, angle, intention. Your job is to track me.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
“Ready?”
Am I? I nod.
He shifts fast—shoulders rolling forward, head dipping, weight sliding to the balls of his feet.
I jump to catch up, my movement messy.
He shakes his head again. “Don’t watch my face. Watch my center of gravity. A person’s intent is in the hips, not the eyes.”
I adjust, and his teaching begins to click into place.
“Again.”
Stryker moves, and I instantly match him. This time, I’m closer.
He switches—arms loosening, body pretending to relax while his stance still hums with readiness.
I follow, mimicking his subtle drop of weight, the angle, the tension under the stillness.
He circles again, faster now.
“Good girl.”
Heat slides down my spine.
He moves one more time—sharp, abrupt, a stance meant to intimidate.
I echo it instantly.
“That’s it.” He doesn’t correct anything that I’ve done. He just looks at me—long and slow, approval darkening his eyes.
“We’ll do it one more time. No coaching.”
He changes his stance to a more neutral position.
So do I.
Then he dives into motion—hard and fast, as if he really is stepping into a confrontation.
Quickly I snap my body into place—a mirror image of him with perfect lines. My movements are so immediate that I startle myself.
Silence hangs between us.
His expression shifts—softens, deepens, darkens all at once.
Slowly, very slowly, he comes in close, until I feel his heat again, until his voice drops into that place that lives low in my stomach.
“That,” he whispers, “could save your life.”
I exhale shakily, adrenaline shimmering under my skin.
“And now the rule.” He lifts a hand to brush back my hair.
His touch is feather-light, almost reverent.
“Tell me what the rule is, Allie.”
“Mirror them. Always mirror.”
“Perfect.”
His approval is a physical thing—warm, steady, devastating, and I feel it everywhere.
“Thank you. You’re a good teacher.”
His lips quirk in a grin. “You’re an excellent study.”
For long moments, we stand there. I have a thousand things I want to say, and I leave them all unspoken.
Stryker stirs thing in me that I’ve never felt before. And his tenderness, his caring, may be my undoing.
After everything we’ve shared, I’m suddenly desperate to regain my emotional footing.
While he moves the coffee table back into place, I curl up onto the couch again.
For a few minutes, we discuss the technique, how it felt for me, my key takeaways.
Then there’s a lull in the conversation.
Even though I’ve warned myself that he might be my undoing, I yearn to know more about him, learn what formed him, made him the person he is.
I don’t know many people who’d be willing to put their lives on the line for a stranger. Hell, I’m beginning to wonder if my own father had betrayed me.
“You okay?”
I blink.
“That was a heavy sigh.”
Because I don’t want to talk about me, my fears, or suspicions, I turn the tables. “Tell me something about your family. Have you always been a protector?”
He goes quiet, sill in a way I’ve never seen him before. “Thought you didn’t want to go into secrets.”
“Sorry.” I turn sideways and back against the arm of the couch. “Didn’t mean to touch a sore spot.”
“You couldn’t know. My situation was…complicated.”
More than anyone, I understand those kinds of dynamics.
“And yeah. Always a protector. My mom and my sister needed me.”
Dear God. “Stryker…”
“Let’s just say it this way…” He quirks an eyebrow. “He crossed a line, and I had no choice but to stop him.”
I swallow hard at the coldness in his voice. No regret.
“He went away, and I got taken into custody.”
Unable to help myself, I touch my arm. “You did what you had to.”
He nods. “I did. Mom might not be here if I hadn’t intervened.”
“God. You must have been scared.”
“By that time? Not at all. I was seventeen. I was big. Stronger than he was. And I’d learned to hold my own street fighting.”
I know there’s so much he’s leaving out. “Seventeen?” He wasn’t even an adult when he saved his mom.
“Dad was a dirty vice cop, and he got caught in a sting. While he was in lockup, my grandparents came to get us. She was finally willing to leave him.”
“And your arrest?”