Chapter 8
Eight
Ava
The ceiling’s wrong.
That’s the first thought that claws through the fog of sleep—heavy, dark timber beams pressing down in the dim light instead of the intricate, white-plastered cornicing of my bedroom in Guildford.
I’m not in my bed, and I’m definitely not in my historic manor house with its familiar drafts and centuries of quiet history.
The air’s cold, smelling of stale woodsmoke and the sharp, metallic tang of gun oil.
For a heartbeat, I’m paralyzed. I’m lost in a map of my own life that doesn’t include this room. Then the weight of the last forty-eight hours slams into my chest.
I’m in a fortress disguised as a cabin.
I pull on my robe, my skin prickling as I pad out to the main room. The silence here isn’t peaceful; it’s a heavy, acoustic void, the kind that only comes when the world’s buried under three feet of snow.
The kitchen light’s a harsh, clinical yellow against the shadows. Silas is at the sink, his back to me. The soft sweater from last night is gone. He’s back in full tactical gear—fitted black nylon, a sidearm holstered at his hip, and a heavy, serrated blade strapped to his thigh.
He looks like a part of the architecture, a lethal extension of the prepper’s logic that built this place.
"Morning," he says. He doesn’t turn around. He probably heard the friction of my slippers on the floorboards three rooms away.
"Morning." My voice is a rough, disoriented rasp. "Is that—"
"Cinnamon rolls." He glances over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a threat. "They’ll be ready in about twenty minutes."
I stare at him, trying to reconcile the smell of yeast with the gun on his belt. "You can bake?"
"I can follow instructions," he says shortly.
I gravitate toward the coffee pot, my hands shaking slightly as I wrap them around a mug. Outside the window, the world has simply ceased to exist. The trees are buried in a drift that’s already reached the deck railing. It makes the cabin feel like a submarine, miles beneath a frozen sea.
Silas dries the last dish, the fabric of his tactical shirt straining against his shoulders, then turns to face me. The domesticity ends there. "I was thinking it might be a good time to go over some basic self-defense."
My stomach drops. The "cozy" morning evaporates. "Self-defense?"
"Nothing intense," he says quickly, reading the alarm on my face, though his tone’s as hard as the steel on his hip. "Just a few things that might help if—" He stops himself. "If you need them."
I take a slow sip of coffee to buy myself time. The thought of learning to defend myself—of admitting I might actually need to fight back physically—makes this whole nightmare feel more real than the weapons do.
But he’s right. I need to know something. Anything.
One hastily drunk coffee later, I’ve changed into leggings and a sweatshirt, and Silas has moved the coffee table to create space in the living room. He’s removed the weapons strapped to his thigh, leaving just the sidearm at his hip.
"First thing you need to understand," he says, his tone calm and professional, "is that the goal’s never to win a fight. The goal is to create space and get away."
I nod, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Most attackers rely on surprise and intimidation. They expect you to freeze." He moves closer, but not threateningly. "So we’re going to work on breaking that freeze response first."
"How?"
"By giving your body something to do automatically." He gestures to the space between us. "The most common attack you'll face is someone grabbing you. Wrist, arm, shoulder. They want control."
My skin prickles at the thought.
"I’m going to show you a few simple releases. Nothing complicated. Just enough to break contact and move." He meets my eyes. "But I need to actually hold your wrist to demonstrate. Is that okay?"
I swallow hard and nod. "Yes."
He reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull back if I want to, then wraps his hand around my right wrist. His grip is firm but not painful.
"This is how most people grab—thumb on top, fingers wrapped around." He doesn't squeeze. "First instinct’s to pull straight back, right?"
I nod.
"Don't. That’s where they expect resistance, and they’re stronger than you." He shifts his stance slightly. "Instead, you’re going to rotate your arm—turn your wrist toward their thumb. That’s the weakest part of their grip."
He demonstrates in slow motion, guiding my arm through the movement. "Rotate, then pull down and away. Sharp movement. Like this."
My wrist slips free easily.
"Again," he says, taking hold of my wrist once more. "Rotate toward the thumb, pull down and away."
I repeat the motion. It works.
"Good. One more time, but faster."
This time when he grabs me, I don't think—I just move. Rotate, pull. My wrist comes free.
"Perfect." There's approval in his voice. "That’s muscle memory starting to build. We’ll practice it a few more times, then move to a different grip."
We run through the wrist release until my movements become smoother and more confident. Then he switches angles—grabbing from the side, from behind, with his other hand. Each time, the principle stays the same. Find the thumb. Rotate. Break free.
"Now let’s talk about what happens if someone grabs both wrists," he says.
My pulse kicks up a notch.
He moves to face me again, hands open. "I’m going to take both your wrists. When I do, I want you to bring your arms up fast—like you’re raising the roof—and step back at the same time. The upward motion breaks the grip. The step back creates distance."
"That’s it?"
"That’s it." He reaches for both my wrists, his grip gentle but secure. "Ready? Go."
I yank my arms up hard—too hard—and stumble backward into the armchair. Silas catches my elbow before I fall. "Easy. You’ve got it. Just controlled force, not panic."
Heat floods my face. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. That was good power." He steadies me, then steps back. "Let’s try it again. Same move, but plant your feet first."
We practice the double-wrist release three more times. On the fourth attempt, I bring my arms up with the right amount of force and step back cleanly.
"Good," Silas says. "Now one more scenario. If someone comes at you from behind and wraps their arms around you—"
He moves behind me, and my entire body goes rigid.
"Hey." His voice is quiet, steady. "I’m not going to grab you yet. I’m just going to talk you through it first, okay?"
I nod, forcing myself to breathe.
"If someone pins your arms like this—" He steps to the side, so I can see, and mimes the position without touching me. "Your instinct will be to struggle forward. Don’t. Drop your weight, get low, then drive your elbow back into their ribs. Hard as you can."
"I understand."
"I’m going to put my arms around you now—loose, so you can feel the position. Tell me if you need me to stop."
"I’ll be fine," I manage.
He shifts back into position, his arms come around me from behind, not tight, just enough contact to demonstrate. "Now drop your weight and—"
I shift too fast, my weight drops, and my elbow swings back. He catches my arm before I can make contact, his hand wrapping around my wrist, and in one smooth motion, he turns me to face him.
But the demonstration puts us chest-to-chest.
We’re close enough that I can see his pupils dilate. Close enough to count his breaths. Close enough that if either of us moved even slightly forward...
He blinks. Swallows.
"I should—" His voice comes out low, rough. "Check-in."
I can't seem to make my vocal chords cooperate, so I just nod. But neither of us moves.
His other hand’s still at my waist, steadying me. Mine’s caught against his chest, trapped between us. I can feel his heart beating under my palm—steady, strong, faster than it should be.
His hand flexes slightly at my waist. His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up. Then he steps back, releasing me as if I’ve burned him.
"Sorry," he says, reaching for his watch. "That was—"
"It’s fine." My voice doesn’t sound like mine. "You were just showing me the move."
"Right," he rasps, his eyes darting toward the wall as if searching for a hidden exit. "The move. Right."
I stand rooted to the floor, my hand still curled into a fist against my own chest where I’d been pressing into his.
My skin feels like it’s vibrating, the phantom pressure of his palm still imprinted on my waist, burning through my clothes.
Every nerve ending in my body’s screaming at the realization that if he hadn’t moved back—if he’d stayed for one second longer—I wouldn’t have been able to pull away at all.
Silas
I drag a hand over my face and force myself to focus on the immediate, practical reality of why I’m here. My heart’s still hammering against my ribs, an unruly, traitorous beat that refuses to synchronize with the calm I need to project.
I grab the sat phone and step toward the window, putting as much distance between us as the small room allows. The air by the glass is cooler, sharper, but it does nothing to soothe the phantom heat of her hand against my chest or the lingering, maddening sensation of her body tucked against mine.
I thumb the contact button, my movements stiff and uncoordinated.
"Hightower Actual to Watchtower," I say, my voice coming out gravel-rough and an octave deeper than intended.
I can’t look at Ava. I need to lock the last five minutes into a mental box, seal the lid, and bury it deep under layers of training and protocol before I turn back around. If I can’t control my own pulse, I have no business being her protection.
"Watchtower," comes back immediately.
"On site and secure," I report. "Weather's deteriorating faster than forecast—heavy snowfall, reduced visibility. No issues. Power, comms, and systems holding."
"Copy. Any concerns?"
"Negative. We're buttoned up and prepared to ride it out."
"Roger. Maintain check-in schedule."
"Wilco."