Chapter Fourteen - Rachel
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rachel
“Why can’t we just get to the self-defense part?” I groan, rolling to my back on the yoga mat in the grass after completing my last set of push-ups.
Ryder sits on his mat a few feet away, watching me catch my breath in only my sports bra and leggings. The knavish gleam in that gaze makes me wonder if his thoughts are purely training-based.
“You’re not tired enough,” he answers.
“Not tired enough?”
He nods, pushing to his feet to grab the shield-shaped pads. “Chances are, when you need these skills most, it’ll be when you’re already at your limit. If we train at that limit and push it, you’ll be better prepared should you ever need to defend yourself.”
I don’t have an answer to that, so I stand and get in my guard stance, ready to find and push those very limits.
We go over the same combinations of jabs, punches, hook punches, and uppercuts that he showed me a few days ago, but my attitude has done a one-eighty. I’m not doing this to prove a point or placate Ryder. I’m doing this because I want to.
Because I need to.
I hit faster, strike harder, and duck, dodge, and block like my life depends on it. I can imagine the target isn’t a pad, but whatever creep was following me yesterday.
Once I calmed down at the base, Ryder drove Lyla and me home.
I waited for the inevitable questioning, but it never came.
It still hasn’t. I have no idea why Ryder didn’t want any more information—admittedly, not a lot—but I figure he has the situation under control.
Besides, it’s not like I want to talk about what happened, anyway.
His attitude toward our training has shifted, too. He took the training seriously before, but there’s a level of urgency that wasn’t there before.
I’m not under the impression that I’d be able to protect myself from a car chase with what Ryder is teaching me, but I need to build up my confidence. When I needed it yesterday, it was like drawing from a drained well, and I’d barely been able to hold on to my sanity when I needed it most.
So, if this is what it takes to build my confidence, I’ll do it.
I shoot periodic looks at Lyla, who is playing with building blocks on the other side of the window just inside the house. She’s in a world of her own, and I couldn’t be more grateful that she was oblivious to the car following us yesterday.
“Ready to move into self-defense?” Ryder asks, sliding the pads off his hands and regarding me carefully like he’s bracing for me to close off.
I nod. None of the nerves and anxiety that riddled me during our last session rear their ugly heads. It’s almost like the fear from yesterday has silenced any remaining hesitation I had about all of this.
The first drill is—as Ryder calls it—a wrist escape.
He grabs my wrist, and I shoot my hand downward, aiming a palm strike at his nose.
Next, he grabs my shoulder, and I swing my arm out of his hold, then practice hammering my fist into his elbow.
There’s an attack from a hook punch and another where he grabs me from behind.
And then we move into ground defense.
“If you’re not comfortable, I won’t push you,” Ryder says when I hesitate to lie down.
“No,” I tell him, shaking my head as I lower myself to the ground and lay on my back. “I want to do this.”
“Okay,” he says with a nod, then lowers onto me, trapping me between his legs.
If someone asked me on my deathbed, I’d admit with my last breath that maybe—maybe—I don’t mind being in this position with Ryder.
I wonder if his thoughts mirror mine, but his eyes are stony, and his face is equally expressionless, which is when I remember that he’s trained like this before.
“Did you do this with Elli?” I want to slap myself in the face as soon as the words leave my lips.
Not only have I blurted an insecurity, but I didn’t disguise the distaste I have for the idea in the least.
Unsurprisingly, Ryder’s lips pull into a teasing smile, and now I want to slap him in the face. “Jealous, Rebel?”
There he goes using that nickname again, and when we’re already in such a compromising position, too.
Bastard.
I roll my eyes, trying my best to play off my embarrassment and—yes—jealousy.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “I’m curious, that’s all.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me for a single second, and I don’t even blame him.
“No, I didn’t do this with Elli. Moreno would’ve put a bullet in me if I’d come close.”
“What does that say about Moreno—that he’d give you another chance after betraying him but would kill you for teaching Elli ground defense.”
Ryder’s lips twist into an expression I don’t recognize—half amusement, half challenge. But there’s something else in there, too, like an understanding of sorts.
“It says that he knows exactly what he wants,” Ryder says.
I’m suddenly overly aware of our closeness and the searing heat his gaze carries. I clear my throat and flick my eyes to the window, relieved Lyla is still occupied with her blocks and not looking at us. “So, now what?”
The next several minutes are spent learning to trap his leg with mine, then buck my hips to roll us so I’m on top of him. We add a few strikes meant to stun, and he goes over small variations to the technique.
As hard as I try to focus on the drill, I can’t quite shake the part of my brain that’s constantly mindful of how close Ryder and I are. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it—get used to him—but it hasn’t happened yet.
I’m about to tell Ryder that I think I have this one down as he lowers on top of me once again, but before I get the chance, his gaze locks on mine—solemn and sincere. “Close your eyes.”
“What? Why?” I ask, even as I do as he asked.
With my eyes closed, my attention zeroes in on each place Ryder touches. Feeling him is all I can do, and it’s overwhelming.
His breath brushes my neck as he says, “You know I would never hurt you, right?”
The question, combined with our current position, should have me opening my eyes and shoving him away with every ounce of my strength. Call it bravery, curiosity, or just plain stupidity, but I nod instead.
“I need to hear you say it,” he says in a throaty voice that shakes the rusty gates where I keep the memories of us locked away.
My mouth goes dry, and it has nothing to do with the heat.
“I know you’d never hurt me,” I whisper, but as I say the words, I realize that’s not entirely true. He’d never hurt me physically, but I have scars that run soul-deep with his name on them.
The cool touch of metal skims across the skin of my forearm. The contrast of my hot skin and the cold metal makes me shudder, even from the minimal contact, as it slides up my arm and back down.
What on earth is—
I go rigid with the realization of what he’s holding.
“Don’t,” Ryder says, lips only inches from my ear. “Don’t open your eyes. Don’t push me away.”
But the urge to do those very things is nearly overpowering.
“Ryder,” I say his name in a broken whisper that would embarrass me if I wasn’t overwhelmed with a sense of betrayal.
How could he?
Only the flat side of the blade meets my skin, but he may as well be driving it into my chest.
“Focus on the cold.”
It’s an order, spoken like a lullaby—a dangerous use of Ryder’s effortlessly compelling voice. I feel like a sailor jumping into the ocean after the siren’s call, only to be drowned beneath the waves.
There’s not much else I can do but trust him.
I focus on the blade, how it chases the heat away, then replaces it with the sting of its cold. He moves it up to my shoulder and back down in an easy rhythm, like a deadly waltz over my skin.
The knife leaves my body, and with it, I feel a shuddering breath of relief, but I don’t open my eyes. Somehow, I know I shouldn’t.
And I’m right.
The blade gently brushes my collarbone, and I gasp at the iciness. Beads of water and sweat roll down my skin, creating a trail of burning ice. I know without asking that he’s dipped the blade in his water.
He mimics the same rhythm as before—only over my collar instead of my arm—and I have no idea when my lips part to let in a steady flow of air to my lungs. I’m so lost in the conflicting sensations that I don’t remember when my heart returned to its normal rate, but it beats at a steady pace.
When the knife lifts again, I’m shocked to my core when I find myself waiting patiently for its return. Sure enough, the newly chilled blade meets my other arm, repeating the same motion over again.
I have no idea how long he trails that blade across my skin, but when it loses its chill, I feel his breath at my ear.
“You don’t need to be afraid of a blade. It may have the power to hurt—to kill—but it also has the power to protect. What a weapon is capable of depends entirely on how you wield it. But you can’t wield anything with fear, Rebel.”
I open my eyes to find myself trapped, not only by his body covering mine but by the raw honesty in those hypnotizing eyes.
For a heart-wrenching second, I can’t help but wonder if that’s what Ryder is to me—a blade that will either protect me or destroy me.