Chapter 12
STRYKER
Three hours later, when Rachel appears at the gym asking if I'll teach her basic self-defense, the soft stuff forces its way back to the surface.
The gym is empty at this hour. Most of the team is in briefings or handling gear maintenance. Just Rachel and me and the weight of proximity.
"I'm not asking you to turn me into an operator," she says before I can voice any of the dozen objections rising in my throat. "I'm asking you to teach me enough that I'm not helpless. That if something happens and you're not there, I have options."
"Nothing's going to happen."
"You can't promise that. None of you can." She moves to the center of the mat, standing in what might be a fighting stance if she had any training. "So teach me. Give me something I can use if everything goes wrong."
I should refuse. Should maintain professional distance and tactical objectivity. Should not put my hands on her in any context that isn't pure protection detail.
But the determination in her eyes kills every reasonable objection before it can form.
"Fine," I say. "Basic self-defense. Escapes and strikes, nothing fancy. You're never going to out-fight a trained operator, so we focus on creating space and running."
"Agreed."
I move behind her, adjusting her stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, hands up but not tense. Her body is warm under my touch, muscles taut with nervous energy.
"Relax," I tell her. "Tension makes you slow. Breathe and stay loose."
She exhales, tries to loosen up. I can feel the effort it takes, the way her shoulders drop incrementally, the slight shift in her weight distribution.
"Show me what to do if someone grabs me from behind," she says.
I demonstrate the grip, wrapping my arm around her waist from behind in a way that's both textbook restraint and intimate contact.
Rachel goes rigid in my hold, and for a second I think she's going to panic, going to flash back to Mateo or the cartel or any of the hundred reasons she has to fear being restrained.
But she breathes through it. Forces herself to stay present, to focus on the technique instead of the trauma.
"Step one," I say against her ear. "Drop your weight. Make yourself heavier, harder to lift. Most people try to pull away, but that plays into the attacker's strength."
Rachel drops her weight. I feel the shift, the way gravity becomes her ally instead of her enemy.
"Good. Step two, strike back. Elbow to the ribs, heel to instep, headbutt if you can reach. Create pain, create space."
She practices the movements slowly, learning the mechanics without real force. Each strike is controlled, careful, building muscle memory without injury. I walk her through it multiple times, adjusting her form, praising what works, correcting what doesn't.
"Again," I say after the sixth repetition. "Faster this time. Don't think, just react."
She resets. I grab her from behind, and this time her response is immediate.
Weight drops, elbow drives back toward my ribs with enough force that I actually feel it through my shirt.
Her heel stamps down toward my instep, and if I weren't already shifting my weight, she'd have connected hard enough to matter.
"Better," I tell her, stepping back. "Much better."
Rachel turns to face me, breathing hard, eyes bright with something that looks like triumph. "What else?"
"Front grab. Someone gets hold of your wrists." I demonstrate, gripping both her wrists firmly but not painfully. "What do you do?"
"Pull away?"
"That's what they expect. Watch." I show her the proper technique—rotating her wrists against my thumbs, the weakest point in my grip, then driving up and out. "Your turn."
She mimics the movement. Gets it wrong the first time, pulling straight back instead of rotating. I adjust her angle, guide her wrists through the proper motion. Her skin is warm beneath my hands, pulse visible in the hollow of her throat.
"Try again."
This time she gets it. Breaks my grip cleanly, steps back into a defensive stance without me having to tell her.
"Good. Now someone grabs you by the shoulders, slams you against a wall. What's your first move?"
"Create space?"
"How?"
She thinks about it, working through the geometry of the scenario. "Head. If they're close enough to slam me into a wall, they're close enough for a headbutt."
"Exactly. But headbutts are risky. You can hurt yourself as much as them. So what else?"
"Knees. Drive a knee into their midsection."
"Or?"
"Groin."
"Or?"
She pauses, then something shifts in her expression. "Palm strike to the nose. Drive up, not straight forward."
"You've been paying attention." I move closer, demonstrating the setup.
"They grab you, slam you back." I don't actually slam her, just guide her back against the padded wall with controlled pressure.
"Your hands come up between theirs, drive up and out to break contact.
" I show her slowly, hands moving through the motion without force.
"Then palm strike. Fast, brutal, straight to the nose. "
We drill it. Over and over, the movements becoming more fluid, her responses getting faster. Each repetition brings us closer together, my hands on her shoulders, her palms against my chest, both of us breathing harder than the exertion warrants.
"One more scenario," I say, though I should call this done. Should send her back to her quarters before this crosses whatever line I'm pretending still exists between us. "Choke hold. Someone gets their hands around your throat."
"Show me."
I move behind her again, hands coming up to her neck.
Not squeezing, just demonstrating position, my palms against her throat gently enough that she could breathe, speak, move freely.
But the intimacy of the contact is undeniable—my chest against her back, her head tipped slightly back against my shoulder, my breath moving her hair.
"Focus," I tell her, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to her or myself.
"You have seconds before you pass out. So you need to react immediately.
Tuck your chin—makes it harder for them to get a clean grip.
Then reach back, find their face, eyes, anything you can attack. Dig your fingers in, make them let go."
She goes through the motions slowly, her hands coming up to where my face would be if this were a real attack. Her fingers brush my jaw, my cheek, and the contact sends electricity straight down my spine.
"Good," I manage. "Now the other option. Drop your weight again, make yourself heavy, then drive your hips back into them. Use your bodyweight, your center of gravity. Make them work to hold you."
Rachel follows the instruction, dropping her weight, driving her hips back against mine. The movement is pure technique, textbook self-defense, and absolutely nothing about it feels professional.
I release her immediately, step back, and put space between us that does nothing to ease the tension crackling in the air.
"That's enough for today," I say, voice rougher than it should be. "You did well."
"Colton." She turns to face me, and the look in her eyes makes it clear we're done pretending this is just about self-defense. "I'm not fragile. I'm not going to fall apart if you look at me wrong."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you keep treating me like I'm made of glass. Like one wrong move and I'll shatter."
"Rachel—"
"I survived Mateo. I survived the cartel. I survived things that would break most people, and I'm still here. Still standing. Still fighting." She steps closer, closing the distance I just created.
"Rachel," I start, though I have no idea how that sentence ends.
She kisses me.
Not hesitant, not questioning. Just closes the distance and presses her mouth to mine with the same determination she brought to learning self-defense. I freeze for half a second, surprise and want and every reason this is a bad idea warring in my head.
Then I'm kissing her back, and the world narrows to the taste of her mouth, the heat of her body, the small sound she makes when I pull her closer.
My hand slides into her hair, fingers threading through the strands, tilting her head to the angle I want.
She opens for me immediately, her tongue sliding against mine, and the taste of her after eight years nearly brings me to my knees.
I've imagined this so many times, but memory doesn't compare to reality.
Rachel makes a sound low in her throat, something between relief and need, and presses closer. Her hands fist in my shirt hard enough that I hear the fabric strain, pulling me down until there's no space left between us. The rapid rise and fall of her chest, the tremor in her fingers.
Eight years since I tasted her, held her, felt her come alive under my touch.
Every second of that time collapses into this moment.
Every reason I left, every night I spent wanting her, every time I convinced myself walking away was the right choice—all of it burns away under the reality of her mouth on mine.
I break the kiss only long enough to shift my grip, hands spanning her waist, feeling the heat of her skin through her shirt.
Her pulse hammers beneath my palms. When I kiss her again, it's deeper, harder, eight years of hunger pouring into the contact.
She meets me intensity for intensity, nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt, her breathing ragged against my mouth.
"Colton," she gasps, and my name on her lips undoes me.
I shift our position, backing her against the padded wall of the gym.
The movement presses our bodies together from chest to hip, and Rachel's head falls back against the wall, exposing the line of her throat.
I trace the path with my mouth, tasting salt and skin, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips.
She arches into the touch, a sharp intake of breath that I feel against my mouth.