Chapter 13 Impact Testing
THIRTEEN
IMPACT TESTING
KNIGHT
I don’t know when worrying about Lark became my default operating system.
Probably around the time she blackmailed her way into our missions.
Definitely by the time I watched her face appear on a bounty board.
Absolutely the second she fell asleep in my arms last night, breathing warm against my chest like I was some kind of security blanket instead of a guy who’s spent most of his life breaking things.
Now it’s morning.
The forest outside the cabin is still damp and gray, mist caught in the trees like cotton. The cabin smells like coffee and pancake mix remnants and the faint citrus of her shampoo.
Lark is at the table in one of my t-shirts, bare legs tucked under her, hair in a messy knot, scrolling through the offline logs we downloaded. The little wrinkle between her brows means she’s thinking hard.
I’m standing by the tiny window, mug in hand, trying not to stare at her like she’s a screensaver I don’t want to turn off.
You’re falling, some traitorous part of me whispers.
Yeah, another part answers. No shit.
It’s not subtle anymore.
It’s not a crush. Not infatuation.
It’s the way my entire body registers her state before my brain does. The way my thoughts run in her direction whenever there’s silence. The way last night’s “I love you” from her replayed in my head until three in the morning like a song I didn’t want to skip.
She looks up, catching me. “What?” she asks.
I take a sip of coffee. “You’re frowning at my logs.”
“Your logs are being stubborn,” she corrects. “Helios is a slippery jerk.”
“Flattered you think they’re mine,” I say. “Pretty sure Dean’s team is doing the heavy lifting on this part.”
She waves a hand. “Details.” She leans back in the chair, stretching, arms over her head, shirt riding up just enough to flash a strip of skin above the waistband of her shorts.
My brain short-circuits for half a second.
Focus, Hayes.
“We’re at an impasse,” she announces. “We’ve followed every thread we can from here. We’ve mapped every node. Until we get a fresh data packet from Arrow, we’re treading water.”
“Treading water is better than drowning,” I say.
“Spoken like someone who’s never treaded water for more than ten minutes.” She scrunches her nose. “I get wrinkly.”
“You get impatient,” I say. “That’s different.”
“Same vibe.” She swivels in the chair to face me fully, bare foot hooking the table leg. “We need to do something else. My brain’s buzzing.”
“You want to run more drills?” I offer. “We could go over the entry points again, run scenarios. Mentally map exit routes if someone comes up that drive—”
“Knight.”
I shut up.
She gives me a look that’s half fond, half exasperated. “You’re already running a thousand scenarios,” she says. “I can see it from over here. I meant me doing something before I start rearranging canned goods by color just to feel alive.”
I snort. “I’m sure Ranger would appreciate the chaos.”
“No, this is like… constructive chaos,” she says. Then her eyes light up. “Ooh. We could train more.”
“We trained yesterday.”
“And? You think bad guys are going to give me a day off?” She stands, motioning toward the small open space we’d cleared yesterday. “Come on. I want to drill until my muscles remember before my brain does.”
I open my mouth to say we should rest. Then I remember the way she reversed my holds yesterday. The satisfaction on her face when she dropped me, the light that came into her eyes when her body did what she’d trained it to do.
Control is rare for her in this mess.
Training gives some back.
“Okay,” I say. “But we go slow. No overextending. You tweak something out here, there’s no urgent care.”
She salutes with two fingers. “Yes, Dad.”
“I’m never telling you serious things again,” I mutter, setting my mug down and stepping into the makeshift “mat.”
She pads over, bare feet silent on the worn rug. Up close, she smells like toothpaste and coffee and my t-shirt. “Partner?” she asks, light but with that steady line under it.
Always.
“Partner,” I say.
We start with the basics she showed me yesterday.
I grab her wrist; she circles out.
She grabs my arm; I practice breaking the hold like she taught me.
We move into the rear grabs again, the choke releases. She corrects my stance, taps my knee when my weight’s wrong, pushes my shoulders until my posture is better.
“Again,” she says, brow furrowed in focus.
“You’re bossy,” I tell her, trying to keep my breathing even.
“You like it,” she says without missing a beat.
She’s not wrong.
Our movements become more fluid. The line between teacher and student blurs. She’ll show me something, then I’ll tweak it, then she’ll test me, then I’ll test her.
We’re close a lot.
Krav Maga doesn’t have much respect for personal space.
My hands circle her wrists, her forearms, her shoulders. Hers land on my chest, my biceps, my ribs.
It’s contact with purpose, not lingering.
But my body doesn’t always care about the distinction.
At one point, I go to demonstrate a defense from a front grab. I tell her to choke me—hands at my throat, fingers curved, gentle pressure.
She hesitates. “I’m not actually going to crush your windpipe, Knight,” she mutters. “I know the difference.”
“Just do it,” I say, trying to sound normal.
She steps in. Her fingers wrap around my throat.
Not tight. Not painful.
Just there.
Every nerve I own sits up and takes notice.
Her body is close enough that I can feel heat radiating off her. Her chest almost touches mine. Her breath fans my face. “Okay,” she says, eyes serious. “Now what, oh wise one?”
It takes a second for my brain to switch from kiss her to demonstrate life-saving technique.
I grasp her wrists, stepping to the side, rotating out, using my shoulder to break the line of pressure, pivoting my hips.
She lets go.
I move through the motion mechanically, suddenly very aware of how loud my heartbeat feels in my ears.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
She cocks her head, eyes narrowing. “Your face does that thing when you’re lying.”
“What thing?”
“Gets even more tragically handsome,” she says.
A short, helpless laugh escapes me. “You’re ridiculous,” I say.
“You like that too,” she shoots back.
Also not wrong.
We keep going.
I run her through a combo—knee to the thigh, elbow to the ribs, heel to the instep, run. She practices on me, her body moving with growing confidence, movements sharper each time.
She’s stunning like this.
Focused.
Strong.
Not a girl who hides in the back row.
A weapon tuned to her own survival.
“Again,” she pants after we do a full-speed run.
“You’re going to burn out,” I warn.
“One more.”
I sigh but nod.
She steps in to simulate the grab. Her hands land on my shoulders this time instead of my throat, fingers digging in like she means it. Her face is inches from mine, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed. “Try something new,” she says. “Improvise.”
My brain offers exactly one suggestion, and it has nothing to do with martial arts.
I ignore it.
Mostly.
I cover her hands with mine, step in, pivot my hips the way I’m supposed to—except instead of executing the throw, I let the momentum take us in a slightly different direction.
Her back hits the wall with a soft thud.
Her eyes fly wide.
I plant one hand beside her head, the other still wrapped around her wrist, pinning it gently but firmly near the wall.
Her chest rises and falls against mine with each breath.
We’re both breathing harder from the drills.
“This feels less like self-defense,” she says, voice not quite steady.
“It’s a versatile move,” I manage.
There’s a beat where I know I should step back.
Laugh it off.
Reset.
Instead, I just… look at her.
At the way her lips part on a small inhale.
At the flecks of gold in her irises.
At the faint sheen of sweat at her hairline.
The need to kiss her isn’t a spike anymore. It’s a steady, rolling tide that’s been climbing all morning, lapping at my ribs.
Last night’s kiss took the edge off the immediate craving.
It also made it worse.
Because now I know exactly how she tastes when she relaxes into me.
Now I know exactly what sound she makes when I deepen the kiss and slide a hand up her spine.
“Knight,” she says softly.
“Yeah?”
“This feels like a bad idea,” she whispers. “In a really… compelling way.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah,” I say. “It does.” My hand loosens on her wrist, sliding down to lace our fingers instead. Her palm is warm and slightly damp, grip tightening around mine like she’s anchoring herself too.
“We’re supposed to be training,” she reminds me, a tremor under the teasing.
“Technically,” I say, “I’m testing how you respond under pressure.”
She huffs out a breathy laugh. “You’re such a liar.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “You want me to stop?”
Her eyes search mine. There’s nervousness there.
And trust. And something bright and reckless that mirrors the wildness in my own chest. “No,” she says, barely audible.
That’s all it takes.
I lean in, closing the last sliver of distance, and kiss her.
It’s different from last night.
Less careful, more inevitable.
She makes a small, surprised sound and then leans into it like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. Her free hand comes up to the front of my shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. I feel the tug all the way through me.
I angle my head, deepening the kiss, our mouths fitting together in a practiced wrong we’ve somehow been rehearsing with every argument and glance for years.
She tastes like coffee and adrenaline.
My world narrows to the slide of her lips, the warmth of her body pinned between me and the wall, the way she rises onto her toes to get closer.
I drop the hand braced beside her head, sliding it to her waist, fingers splaying across her hip. I can feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of her shirt.
She presses closer, closing what little space was left between us. Our bodies line up, chest to chest, hip to hip. The contact is a shock and a confirmation—yes, this is real, yes, she wants this too, yes, I’m not alone in this free fall.
I keep the kiss right on that razor’s edge—hungry but not frantic, hot but not out of control.
Her hand leaves my shirt, sliding up to my neck, fingers threading into the hair at the nape. She gives a small, unconscious tug that sends a bolt of heat straight down my spine.
I groan into her mouth.
She smiles against my lips.
Cocky.
Infuriating.
Perfect.
“Lark,” I murmur, breaking just enough to breathe. My forehead rests against hers. Our noses brush. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Occupational hazard,” she whispers. “You knew what you were signing up for when you let me in the car.”
I tug her closer by the waist. “That was blackmail,” I remind her.
“And you still said yes,” she says, eyes bright.
“Not my smartest move.”
“Pretty sure it was,” she counters.
She kisses me again before I can respond, quicker this time, playful. I chase it, catching her bottom lip between mine, coaxing another soft sound from her.
My hand slides up her side, feeling the curve of her ribs, the steady thud of her heartbeat under my palm. She’s thin but strong, all lean muscle and stubborn resolve.
“Say something awful,” she breathes between kisses.
I blink. “What?”
“Something terrible and romantic so my brain can’t handle it.”
I huff out a laugh that bumps our mouths.
“You’re impossible,” I say.
“Knight.”
I look at her.
There’s something vulnerable that makes my chest ache.
I could deflect.
I could joke.
I don’t.
Instead, I press my mouth to the corner of hers, then along her jaw, up to her temple, breathing her in.
“You feel like… home,” I murmur, the words surprising even me with their bluntness.
“Which is really inconvenient, considering we’re in a cabin the internet forgot about with a crime syndicate trying to murder us. ”
Her breath catches. She pulls back just enough to see my face clearly. Her eyes shine, and a slow, stunned smile spreads across her mouth. “Knight Hayes,” she whispers, “that might be the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Your bar is low,” I say weakly.
“No, my standards are just calibrated for emotionally reluctant vigilantes,” she says. “And you, sir, are murdering it.”
“Murdering what?”
“My remaining emotional defenses.” She leans in to kiss me again, slow and lingering.
I sink into it, letting the outside world blur at the edges.
There’s still a bounty.
There are still people out there who’d see us both dead for sport.
Dean and Arrow and the others are still working angles we can’t see.
But in this little square of space—the two feet of wall behind her and the few inches of floor under my feet—none of that matters for a minute.
It’s just us.
Her mouth.
My hands.
The quiet, secret thrill of finally touching something I’ve wanted for longer than I’ll admit.
When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard again. Her lips are swollen, eyes dark.
“If this is what ‘training’ looks like now,” she says, voice slightly hoarse, “I’m putting it on the schedule daily.”
“Pretty sure that defeats the purpose,” I mutter.
“What, stress relief?”
“Focus,” I say. “We’re supposed to be increasing it, not destroying it.”
She grins. “You’re the one who pinned me to a wall, Hayes,” she points out. “I was being a perfectly innocent student.”
“You are never innocent,” I say.
“True.” She lifts her hand, fingers brushing my jaw, softer now. “But I am yours.”
The words hit with the force of a body blow.
I don’t deserve that kind of claim.
I want it anyway.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “You are.”
Her answering smile is so bright it feels like a dare to the universe.
She gives my shirt one last little tug, then slips out from between me and the wall, bare feet padding back toward the table.
“Come on,” she says over her shoulder. “Helios isn’t going to catch themself.”
I watch her for a second.
The way she moves.
The way she glances back to make sure I’m following.
The way my chest feels—too full and not nearly enough space for all of this.
I’m worried.
God, I’m worried.
About Cathedral.
About the bounty.
About what happens when Dean finds Helios and what kind of nest we’re poking.
But underneath the worry, there’s something else now.
A slow and steady pulse.