Chapter 3
T hree days had passed since my introductory session with Chad, and I'd spent them vacillating between anticipation and terror.
Each morning, I'd checked the bruise on my shoulder and practiced the wrist escape in my bathroom mirror, my movements stiff and uncertain without Chad's guiding hands.
I hadn't told a soul at Glimmer about my decision.
Trina would make it into a joke, and Mrs. Henderson would give me that condescending look that said "how adorable" without needing words.
This was mine—my secret, my challenge, my chance to become someone stronger.
But now I was back for my second session.
The academy was quieter today than during my last visit. No class occupied the main training floor, just a couple of students in white uniforms practicing in pairs, their movements fluid and purposeful.
Chad appeared in the doorway to the main training floor before I'd even set my bag down.
He wore a crisp black uniform—a gi, I remembered from my frantic late-night research—belted with what looked like well-worn black fabric.
The stark color emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the compact power of his frame.
His gaze swept over me, taking in my workout clothes—leggings and a loose t-shirt again.
"Right on time. I like it," he said, that hint of approval in his voice that made my spine straighten automatically. "Follow me."
I trailed behind him across the main training floor, conscious of the experienced students who glanced our way.
Did they see what I saw—their commanding instructor leading a soft, untrained woman to what would undoubtedly be her humiliation?
Or did they just see another beginner, unremarkable and forgettable?
The small, semi-private area behind the decorative screen waited for us, the tatami mats pristine and inviting.
"We'll start with warm-ups," Chad said, setting a small digital timer on the bench. "Jumping jacks, thirty seconds."
I blinked at the abruptness, but his expectant look had me scrambling into position. The jumping jacks seemed simple enough at first, but by fifteen seconds, my breathing had quickened. By twenty-five, my thighs burned. When the timer beeped, relief flooded through me.
"High knees, thirty seconds," Chad continued without pause, demonstrating the movement with mechanical precision.
I mimicked him, lifting my knees as high as I could manage, which wasn't nearly as high as his. Twenty seconds in, my lungs protested. By thirty, sweat beaded along my hairline.
"Prisoner squats, thirty seconds."
And so it went—mountain climbers, plank holds, lateral shuffles—each exercise flowing into the next with barely a moment's rest. My face flushed, my t-shirt dampened, and my muscles trembled with the unfamiliar exertion.
After four minutes that felt like forty, Chad called, "Rest," and I bent forward, hands on my knees, gulping air.
"I thought . . . we were . . . learning self-defense," I panted, immediately regretting the complaint when his eyebrow arched.
"We are," he said simply. "A fight might last much longer than four minutes. You need to be able to execute techniques while your heart is racing and your muscles are burning. Fitness is foundational."
I straightened, embarrassed. Of course. This wasn't a dance class; it was preparation for something deadly serious. My body might be protesting, but that was the point—to push past that protest when it mattered.
"Now," Chad continued, "we begin with the most important skill—how to fall safely."
He demonstrated a backward breakfall, his body dropping to the mat with controlled precision, his arm slapping the surface just as he made contact. The sound echoed sharply in our secluded space.
"The arm slap disperses impact energy," he explained. "It protects your head and spine. Watch again."
He performed the movement once more, slower this time, breaking it down into its components. It looked simple enough when he did it—a smooth descent, a perfect slap, a body relaxed upon impact.
"Your turn," he said, moving to stand beside me. "I'll support you through the first few."
His hand came to rest lightly between my shoulder blades, steady and reassuring. Still, terror seized me as I tried to lower myself backward.
"I can't," I said, my body refusing to willingly fall. "I don't—"
"You can," he countered, his voice firm but not unkind. "I won't let you get hurt. Trust the process, Daliah."
I took a breath, then another. His hand remained steady against my back, a promise of safety. I bent my knees slightly and allowed myself to tip backward, fighting every instinct that screamed at me to catch myself.
Chad's other hand caught my upper arm, guiding me down. "Chin tucked," he instructed. "Round your back. Arm out, palm down. Slap as you land."
My descent was anything but graceful. I hit the mat with a soft thud, my arm slap coming a second too late, the impact jolting up my spine despite the mat's forgiving surface.
"Again," Chad said, helping me to my feet. "This time, slap earlier."
The second attempt was marginally better. The third, slightly less terrible. By the sixth repetition, exhaustion battled with frustration as I failed to achieve anything resembling Chad's fluid technique.
"Your body is fighting you," he observed, his tone clinically detached. "It's programmed for self-preservation. You're asking it to override that programming. That takes repetition."
We moved on to side breakfalls, then forward rolls. With each new technique, my body found new ways to resist, new muscles to stiffen when they should relax. The mat, soft as it was, seemed to grow harder with each impact. A dull ache settled into my hip where I'd landed awkwardly more than once.
"You're thinking too much," Chad noted after a particularly clumsy forward roll left me sprawled inelegantly on the mat. "Your brain is getting in your body's way."
I pushed myself up, blowing a strand of hair from my face. "My brain is trying to keep my body from breaking its neck."
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly—not quite a smile, but close. "Your neck is fine. I wouldn't let you break it."
Something in his tone, in the absolute certainty of his statement, made warmth bloom in my chest despite my discomfort. He wouldn't let me get hurt. I believed him.
After twenty minutes of falls and rolls that left my body feeling like one massive bruise, Chad called for a water break.
I sank gratefully onto the bench, gulping from my bottle.
He remained standing, his posture perfect despite the intensive demonstration he'd just performed. He wasn't even breathing hard.
"Now we'll revisit the wrist escape from last time," he said once I'd caught my breath. "Then add a new technique."
He extended his hand, and I placed my wrist in his grip, the position already familiar. I rotated my arm against his thumb, stepping to create space as I'd practiced in my bathroom mirror. His grip released easily.
"Better," he said, the single word sending a ridiculous surge of pride through me. "Again, but I'll resist more."
We repeated the drill with increasing resistance. Each time his fingers closed around my wrist, I felt that same electric awareness, that heightened consciousness of his skin against mine. Each time I broke free, that tiny spark of accomplishment grew.
"Good. Now for something new," Chad said. "This is a standing Kimura lock from a two-handed grab. It's effective when an attacker grabs both your wrists."
He faced me, reaching out to encircle both my wrists with his hands. Even with his gentle instructional grip, I felt the immense strength in his fingers, the potential power he kept carefully restrained.
"When someone grabs both wrists, most people try to pull straight back," he explained. "Instead, you'll step forward, left foot outside my right, and rotate your right arm up and over, creating this shape."
He guided my right arm in a circular motion, bringing it up between us and then down toward his left arm. My body followed awkwardly, unsure where to position itself as my arm moved through the unfamiliar pattern.
"From here, you trap my left wrist with your left hand," he continued, adjusting my grip. "Then pivot left, applying pressure to my shoulder. In a real situation, this creates pain compliance.”
Something about the way he said pain compliance made my heart beat faster.
We moved through the sequence step by step, my limbs clumsy and uncoordinated. Each attempt felt like trying to pat my head while rubbing my stomach—my brain knew what to do, but my body refused to comply.
"No, like this," Chad said for perhaps the tenth time, his patience seemingly endless.
He positioned himself behind me, his chest nearly touching my back.
One hand wrapped gently around my right wrist, guiding my arm through the proper arc.
His other hand rested lightly on my hip, rotating me to the correct angle.
His touch was entirely professional—firm, instructive, without a hint of impropriety—but my skin tingled beneath my damp t-shirt.
His breath brushed against my ear as he spoke, explaining the mechanics of leverage and body positioning.
I tried to focus on his words rather than the solid warmth of him behind me, the way his hands seemed to dwarf mine.
"You need to control the distance," he said, his voice a low rumble that I felt as much as heard. "Step in closer. Your power comes from proximity."
I bit my lip, then moved as directed, stepping deeper into the technique, my body finally beginning to grasp the movement pattern.
"Now try it on your own," he instructed, moving to face me again, extending both hands to grab my wrists.