Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
MARA
Professional distance lasts approximately eighteen hours.
To be fair, I really did try. I woke up at seven, did yoga in the cabin's small living room, showered, dressed in practical hiking clothes per the training schedule Boone slipped under my door sometime before dawn.
I ate breakfast alone, reading through the morning's emails from my team in San Francisco, and didn't once think about the way his voice dropped when he said my name.
Okay, I thought about it twice. Maybe three times.
The knock on my door comes at exactly eight o'clock.
I open it to find Boone in tactical gear, his auburn beard freshly trimmed, ice blue eyes already assessing me from boots to ponytail.
"You're dressed appropriately."
"Don't sound so surprised." I step out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind me. "I do occasionally follow instructions."
"Occasionally being the operative word." He starts walking toward the training grounds, and I fall into step beside him. "Today's schedule includes basic orienteering, emergency signaling, and an introduction to self defense fundamentals."
"Sounds delightful."
"It's not meant to be delightful. It's meant to keep you alive if you ever find yourself separated from protection."
The training grounds sprawl across the eastern edge of the compound, a mix of obstacle courses, shooting ranges, and what looks like a ropes course threading through the trees.
A few of the team members are already out here.
Ryder, who I met briefly at dinner last night, is running drills with another man I don't recognize.
In the distance, I can see Wolfe's tall figure moving through the forest, silent and watchful.
Boone leads me to a clearing where a map table has been set up, topographical charts spread across its surface.
"Orienteering first." He hands me a compass. "Do you know how to use this?"
"Point the red end north?"
His jaw tightens. "Close enough. Let's start with the basics."
For the next two hours, Boone teaches me how to read terrain, identify landmarks, and navigate without GPS. He's patient in a way I didn't expect, correcting my mistakes without condescension, explaining concepts multiple times when I don't immediately grasp them.
He's also standing very close. Constantly.
Every time he leans over my shoulder to point at the map, I catch his scent.
Cedar and gun oil and something uniquely him.
Every time his hand brushes mine while adjusting my grip on the compass, heat sparks up my arm.
Every time those ice blue eyes meet mine, I think about last night and the way his voice sounded when he said maybe you're both.
Professional distance. Right.
"You're not paying attention."
I blink, refocusing on the map in front of me. "I am absolutely paying attention."
"Then what did I just say about the contour lines?"
I look at the map. Look at him. Look back at the map.
"They indicate... elevation changes?"
"That was ten minutes ago." He crosses his arms, and the movement stretches his tactical shirt across his chest in a way that's deeply distracting. "Where's your head at?"
Somewhere it definitely shouldn't be. "I'm just tired. Didn't sleep well."
His expression shifts, concern replacing irritation. "Nightmares? Anxiety about the threat?"
"No, I..." I trail off, because I can't exactly tell him I was awake until two in the morning replaying our almost kiss and wondering what would have happened if Sadie hadn't interrupted. "New place. New bed. It takes me a while to adjust."
He studies me for a long moment, those sharp eyes seeing too much. Then he nods.
"We'll take a break. Grab water, walk it off. Reconvene in fifteen for the self defense module."
"Self defense module." I stretch my arms above my head, working out the stiffness from hunching over maps. "Does that mean you're going to teach me to fight?"
"It means I'm going to teach you to survive long enough for help to arrive." His eyes track the movement of my stretch, then snap back to my face. "There's a difference between fighting and escaping."
"Noted." I head toward the water station set up near the obstacle course, very aware of Boone's gaze following me.
Fifteen minutes later, we're standing on a padded mat in an open air training area.
Boone has removed his tactical jacket, leaving him in just a fitted black t shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the muscles beneath.
His forearms are bare, and I can see the tattoos I'd only glimpsed before.
Dates and coordinates, mapping his military career across his skin.
"The goal of self defense," he says, circling me slowly, "is not to win a fight. It's to create enough space to escape."
"What if I want to win the fight?"
"Then you'll probably die." His voice is flat. Matter of fact. "You're five seven, maybe one forty. Most threats you'd face are going to be bigger, stronger, and trained for violence. The moment you try to engage, you lose the advantage of unpredictability."
I turn to track his movement, keeping him in my line of sight. "So what do I do instead?"
"You hurt them fast, you hurt them where it counts, and you run." He stops directly in front of me. "Eyes, throat, groin. In that order."
"Very romantic."
His mouth twitches. "Romance isn't the goal."
"What is the goal?"
"Keeping you breathing." He moves closer, and suddenly there's barely a foot of space between us. "I'm going to demonstrate some basic techniques. You're going to practice them on me."
"On you?"
"I can take it." There's a challenge in his voice. "The question is whether you can dish it out."
For the next hour, Boone puts his hands on me.
Professionally. Tactically. With the clear purpose of teaching me to defend myself.
It doesn't matter.
Every time his fingers wrap around my wrist to demonstrate an escape technique, my skin burns.
Every time he positions himself behind me to show me how to break a chokehold, I'm acutely aware of the heat of his body against my back.
Every time he nods in approval at a move well executed, I want to do it again just to see that look in his eyes.
"Again." He's grabbed my arm, simulating an attacker trying to drag me. "Step into me, not away."
I step into him. His chest is solid against my shoulder, his breath warm against my hair.
"Now strike. Palm heel to the nose."
I bring my hand up in a controlled strike, stopping just short of actual contact. His free hand catches my wrist, guiding the motion.
"Good angle. More force next time." He doesn't let go. "A broken nose won't stop a determined attacker, but it'll blind them long enough for you to run."
"And if they don't let go?"
"Then you escalate." His grip tightens on my wrist, demonstrating. "Groin strike. Hard as you can. Don't hesitate, don't hold back. A man who's grabbed you isn't going to show you mercy. You don't owe him any."
I look up at him. His face is inches from mine, jaw tight, eyes intense.
"Show me."
"Mara..."
"Show me. I want to know I can actually do this if I have to."
For a moment, he doesn't move. Then he shifts position, wrapping one arm around my torso from behind, pinning my arms to my sides. His other hand comes up to my throat, not squeezing but present. Controlling.
"This is a worst case scenario," he says, his voice low against my ear. "Attacker has you from behind, restricting movement and airway. What do you do?"
My heart is pounding. Not from fear. From the feel of his body pressed against mine, hard and warm and overwhelming.
Focus. This is important.
"I... step on his foot?"
"Try it."
I bring my heel down on his instep. He doesn't react, doesn't loosen his grip.
"Harder. Combat boots or heels, go for the arch. Running shoes, aim for the toes."
I stomp again, putting real force behind it. He grunts but holds on.
"Good. Now what?"
"Elbow to the ribs?"
"Show me."
I drive my elbow back, connecting with his midsection. He exhales sharply, his grip loosening slightly.
"Again. Don't stop until you're free."
I elbow him again, harder. At the same time, I drop my weight, turning into his body the way he taught me. His arm slides from my throat as I duck, and I bring my knee up toward his groin in a controlled strike that stops just short of contact.
We freeze.
I'm pressed against his chest, one hand braced on his shoulder, my knee between his legs. His hands have moved to my hips, steadying me. Our faces are close enough that I can see the individual flecks of darker blue in his eyes.
Neither of us moves.
"Good," he says roughly. "That was... good."
"Thanks for not actually choking me."
"Thanks for not actually kneeing me in the balls."
My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.
"Boone."
"Don't." His voice is strained. "Mara, don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to kiss you."
My breath catches. "What if I do?"
His hands tighten on my hips. For a long moment, he just stares at me, a war playing out behind those ice blue eyes. Control versus want. Protocol versus need.
Then he mutters something that sounds like fuck it and his mouth crashes into mine.
The kiss is nothing like I expected.
I'd imagined controlled precision, the same careful discipline he brings to everything else. Instead, it's raw. Desperate. His beard scrapes against my chin as he tilts my head back, one hand sliding up to grip the base of my ponytail while the other pulls my hips flush against his.
I open for him immediately, and his tongue sweeps into my mouth with a groan that vibrates through my entire body. He tastes like coffee and something darker, and when I press closer, I can feel exactly how much he wants this.
How much he's been wanting this.
My hands find his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. He's so solid, so overwhelming, and when he walks me backward until my shoulders hit the support beam at the edge of the training area, I don't resist.
He pins me there with his body, one thigh pressing between my legs, and kisses me like he's been starving for it.
"This is a terrible idea." His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, finding the sensitive spot below my ear that makes my knees buckle.
"The worst," I agree breathlessly.
"Your father would kill me."
"Probably."
"I'm supposed to be protecting you."
I grab his face, forcing him to look at me. "Boone. Shut up and kiss me."
He does.
I don't know how long we stay there, pressed against that beam, learning the taste and feel of each other.
Long enough for my lips to swell. Long enough for his hands to find the strip of bare skin between my shirt and my waistband.
Long enough for me to seriously consider dragging him back to my cabin and forgetting every reason this is a mistake.
A radio crackles.
"Boone, come in. This is Deck."
We break apart, breathing hard. Boone's eyes are dark, his lips wet from my mouth, his chest heaving.
"Boone. Report."
He fumbles for his radio, stepping back from me. Creating distance that feels physical and necessary.
"Yeah. I'm here."
"Sully's got something. Meeting in fifteen at the lodge."
"Copy. On my way." He clips the radio back to his belt, then runs a hand over his face. "Mara..."
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Don't apologize. Don't tell me it was a mistake. Don't give me the speech about professional boundaries."
"It was a mistake."
"Was it?" I step toward him, closing the distance he'd created. "Because from where I was standing, it felt pretty intentional."
His jaw tightens. "I don't do things without thinking them through. That's not who I am."
"Maybe that's the problem." I reach up, smoothing a wrinkle in his shirt where my fist had gripped. "Maybe you think too much."
"And maybe you don't think enough." He catches my hand, holding it against his chest. His heartbeat is rapid beneath my palm. "This can't happen, Mara. Not while you're under my protection."
"When does my protection end?"
"When the threat is neutralized."
"And after that?"
He doesn't answer. But he doesn't let go of my hand either.
"Boone." Deck's voice crackles again. "Time sensitive."
"I have to go." He releases me, stepping back. "Stay here. I'll send someone to escort you back to your cabin."
"I can walk myself back."
"You don't walk anywhere alone. That's not negotiable." His voice has hardened into command mode, the tender man who kissed me moments ago disappearing behind the tactical specialist. "Twenty minutes. Stay in sight of the training area."
He's gone before I can argue.
I lean against the beam that still holds the warmth of my body, touching my swollen lips, and wonder what the hell I'm getting myself into.
Professional distance. Clear boundaries. No more.
We lasted eighteen hours.
At this rate, I'll be in his bed by the end of the week.
The really troubling part? I'm counting on it.