Chapter 6
DECLAN
"I'll be there in five. Don't keep me waiting."
Jade's words hang in the air as she turns and walks away, her copper ponytail swinging with each confident step. The three of us watch her retreating form in stunned silence.
"Dios mío, te compadezco," Mateo mutters, crossing himself dramatically.
"What just happened?" Ethan asks, his brow furrowed.
"Looks like I'm giving a self-defense lesson," I reply, keeping my voice neutral despite the fact that I'm as surprised as they are. After three days of her avoidance, Jade Sinclair has suddenly decided to engage. And on her terms, not mine.
"Now?" Ethan's eyebrows climb higher. "We're in the middle of security protocols."
"She's the client," I shrug, already moving toward the pool house. "And it's about time she started taking her security seriously."
"Have fun with the Ice Queen," Mateo calls after me. "Try not to get frostbite."
I ignore him, entering the pool house to change. Five minutes. A clear challenge. She thinks I'll be late, that I'll make her wait to establish some kind of dominance. She doesn't know me at all.
Four minutes later, I'm pushing open the door to the gym, a converted guest suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the canyon, top-of-the-line equipment, and a generous area covered in training mats.
Jade is already there, stretching in the center of the mat, her long legs extended in front of her as she bends forward.
"Let's get something straight," she says, straightening and crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm here because I want to be, not because you demanded it."
"Noted."
"And I expect to be treated like any other student, not a fragile doll."
I register her choice of words: doll. Her voice falters slightly on the word, just a slight tremor.
"I treat all students according to their abilities," I respond, moving to stand across from her on the mat. "Which means we start with the basics."
A flicker of something... disappointment?... crosses her face before her neutral expression returns. "Fine."
"First, stance." I demonstrate, feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced. "Solid foundation is crucial."
She mirrors my stance with practiced ease, her form nearly perfect on the first try. Interesting.
I motion her to the center of the mat. "We'll start with stance and weight distribution. Basic moves."
She rolls her shoulders. "Lead the way, sensei."
I ignore the sarcasm. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees slightly. Keep your center low."
She follows without protest.
I circle her, correcting her posture with the lightest touch to her elbow, her hip, the small of her back. Every point of contact buzzes through my fingertips. I'm trying not to notice.
Trying harder not to like it.
"Good. Now we'll work on breaking holds. When someone grabs you from behind..."
She moves with unexpected speed, slipping behind me and wrapping her arm across my chest in a surprisingly competent restraint.
In a blink, she has me flat on my back, straddling my hips, eyes lit with triumph.
"Like that?" she asks.
My hands are braced on the mat beside me, fighting every instinct not to grab her.
"You've done this before," I observe, easily breaking her hold but genuinely impressed.
She steps back, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I might have picked up a few things."
She's gloating.
"Brat," I mutter.
She laughs, light and reckless. I sit up slower than I need to, watching her stretch her arms and bounce on her toes like she's just getting warmed up.
"Again," I say.
This time, it's not instruction. It's a challenge.
"Why didn't you mention you already had training?"
"You didn't ask." She shrugs, her green eyes challenging.
Fair point. I had assumed, based on her profession, her wealth, her apparent fragility. Another misconception to add to the growing list.
"Show me what else you know," I say, curiosity replacing surprise.
She launches into a series of basic defense maneuvers, each executed with reasonable competence.
Her technique isn't perfect. She telegraphs her moves and relies too much on speed rather than leverage, but she's clearly put in the hours.
For someone of her build facing a larger opponent, she's actually chosen effective techniques.
I correct her form occasionally, demonstrating proper hand placement, better angles for maximum impact. She takes the instruction well, adapting quickly. After twenty minutes, we've established a rhythm, moving through various scenarios with increasing complexity.
"Ready to try sparring?" I ask, noting that she's barely winded despite the workout.
"Absolutely." Her eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm.
"I'll hold back," I warn, mindful of her recent injuries.
"Don't bother."
I smile inwardly at her bravado. She's good for an amateur, but there's a vast difference between training sessions and actual combat experience. Still, I admire her confidence.
We circle each other on the mat, her movements fluid and measured. She strikes first, a quick jab that I easily deflect, followed by an attempt to sweep my legs that I sidestep. Her recovery is impressive though; she doesn't overcommit, maintaining her balance and defensive posture.
"Not bad," I acknowledge, launching a slow, controlled counterattack that tests her reflexes.
She blocks, counters, then uses my momentum to slip around behind me again. This time when she moves in, I'm ready. I catch her arm, using her own momentum to redirect her, but she adapts, shifting her weight unexpectedly.
For a split second, her technique actually works.
I'm off-balance, not expecting the counter.
My instincts kick in, and I roll with the motion rather than resist it.
We hit the mat together, my training automatically ensuring I take the brunt of the impact.
She ends up straddling me, her hands pinning my shoulders, her face flushed with exertion and triumph.
"Surprised?" she asks, a smirk playing on her lips.
The moment stretches between us, charged and electric.
She releases my shoulders and starts to move away, but I'm not ready to concede the match.
This isn't about proving anything now; it's about proper training.
I catch her wrist, use my core strength to shift our positions, and suddenly she's beneath me on the mat, her eyes wide with surprise.
"Never celebrate too early," I advise, keeping my weight on my forearms to avoid crushing her. "And never assume your opponent is defeated until they're completely immobilized."
She squirms slightly, testing my hold, then stops when she realizes it's secure. "Noted."
I should move now. Get up, continue the lesson.
But something in her gaze holds me in place.
Her breath comes in quick, shallow pants, her chest rising and falling against mine.
The scent of her, something floral mingled with clean sweat, fills my senses.
Her hair has partially escaped its ponytail, copper strands splayed across the black mat like flames.
My admiration gets the better of my mouth.
"You move well. Strong legs. Compact frame. Powerful base."
She freezes.
Just for a second.
Then her eyes shutter, and her whole posture changes.
"If you're trying to criticize my body," she says, voice tight, "you're going to have to try harder. There's nothing you can say I haven't heard before."
I straighten. "That wasn't a criticism."
"You don't need to explain," she cuts me off, her walls visibly rebuilding. "I'm sorry my body doesn't meet your expectations."
The misunderstanding ignites something hot and frustrated in my chest. So, I stop holding my weight back, letting her feel the full press of my body against hers. My hips press lightly into hers. There's no way she doesn't feel what I'm feeling. No way I can pretend I'm not hard as granite.
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating as she registers our position. And something else, something she can't possibly miss given our close contact.
She blinks up at me, stunned.
"Can you feel the length of my disappointment?" I say, my voice low and rough.
She doesn't move. Neither do I.
Her breath hitches.
My gaze drops to her mouth. Her lips part. Her hands slide to my chest.
I lower my head, just a fraction.
Then the door bangs open.
"Oh! I'm so sorry! I didn't... I should have knocked... I'll just..."
Sophie's flustered voice shatters the moment. I roll away from Jade immediately, years of combat training allowing me to be on my feet in a smooth, controlled motion that belies the chaos in my mind.
Jade sits up more slowly, her cheeks flushed, that carefully composed mask sliding back into place as she smooths her ponytail.
"It's fine, Sophie," she says, her voice impressively steady. "We were just finishing up."
Sophie stands in the doorway, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield, her wide eyes darting between us. "I just came to let you know that your mother is here..."
"What!?" Jade snaps, all the color draining from her face in an instant. The woman who was soft and pliant beneath me seconds ago vanishes, replaced by someone rigid with tension, her eyes going cold and distant.
When the door clicks shut behind her, Jade rises to her feet, her movements stilted, keeping a careful distance between us. The woman who confidently challenged me minutes ago has been replaced by someone more guarded, more measured.
"Jade... I'm sorry..." I start to say. What, I don't know. To apologize? Truth is I'm not sorry at all.
"Mr. Reid... don't bother." Her voice is flat, all the warmth and playfulness from earlier completely gone. Whatever just happened between us clearly pales in comparison to her mother's presence.
Then she's gone, leaving me alone with the ghost of her warmth against my body and the unsettling realization that Jade Sinclair might be the most dangerous assignment I've ever accepted. Not because she's reckless. Not because she's high-profile. But because she's getting under my skin.