Chapter 4 #2
Think, Peyton.
"Elbow," I say. "Drive my elbow back into their ribs."
"Show me."
I hesitate for half a second, then do it in a careful and controlled way, not actually trying to hurt him.
“Harder,” Blake grunts. "You're not going to hurt me, and if this was real, you'd need to make it count."
"I don't want to—"
"Peyton." His voice is firm. "I'm six-two, two-ten, and I've been fighting since I was twelve. You're not going to hurt me. But you might save your own life if you commit. So do it again. Harder."
I take a breath and think about Domenic reaching for me or about the men in the woods. About every time someone's made me feel small, powerless, and scared. Then I drive my elbow back with everything I have.
Blake releases me immediately and steps back. There's approval in his eyes. I hate how good it makes me feel. I barely know this man, and I am eager for his praise. “Good. That would buy you seconds. Maybe enough to run. But if they don't let go?"
“I don’t know.”
"Then you make it ugly." He moves behind me again, arms around my waist. "Drop your weight, elbow to ribs, then snap your head back. Go for the nose, the jaw, anything you can reach. Make them regret touching you. Your body belongs to you.”
His breath is warm against my neck. I can feel the solid weight of him at my back, the strength in the arms holding me, not tight enough to hurt, but enough that I understand what I'm up against.
Enough that I know I need to learn this.
I go through the motions: drop, elbow, head back, and Blake releases me each time, in a patient, methodical way.
"Again," he says.
We drill it. Over and over until the movements become automatic, until my body knows what to do before my brain catches up.
Sweat dampens my hairline. The dress, beautiful, expensive, and utterly impractical, restricts my movement. I'm suddenly furious at every gala I've attended in clothes designed to make me ornamental instead of functional. I could have fucking died.
"Break," Blake says after the tenth repetition. "Water?"
I nod, breathing hard.
He brings me a glass from the kitchen. I drink it too fast, and nearly choke.
"Easy." His hand is on my back, steadying. "You're doing well. Better than most people on their first try."
"Most people haven't had their lives threatened at a Christmas gala."
"Fair point." He's standing close again, too close, and I can see the sheen of sweat on his own skin, the way his shirt clings to muscles I've been trying very hard not to notice.
"What else?" I ask.
"What else what?"
"What else do I need to know? If someone comes at me from the front. If there's more than one. If they have a weapon."
Blake's expression darkens. "Those are different lessons. More advanced. More dangerous."
"Then teach me." I set down the water glass. "I'm not fragile, Blake. Stop treating me like I'll break."
"I'm not worried about you breaking." His voice is rough. "I'm worried about what happens when you realize exactly how brutal this world is. When you learn how to hurt people and find out you're good at it."
"Maybe I want to be good at it."
"That's not what I want for you.”
The words hang between us, weighted with meaning I'm not sure how to interpret.
"Show me anyway," I say softly.
He hesitates, then nods. "Front attack. Someone comes at you, gets their hands around your throat. What do you do?"
"I—" Panic flutters again. "I don't know."
"That's why we practice." He raises his hands slowly, giving me time to prepare. "I'm going to put my hands on your throat, not tight, just enough for you to feel the position. You good with that?"
My heart's racing, but I nod.
Blake's hands come up, settle gently against my throat.
Warm. Large enough to span my neck easily.
The touch is careful, controlled, but I feel the potential violence in it and how easy it would be for him to squeeze, to hurt, to kill.
And suddenly, I feel a rush of delicious warmth between my legs.
"Breathe," he says quietly. "I've got you. You're safe."
He doesn’t get it.
I’m not frightened.
Honestly, I don’t know what the hell this is.
I force air into my lungs.
Focus on the task, Peyton.
"Now," Blake continues. "Most people's instinct is to grab the hands, try to pull them away. That doesn't work because they're stronger than you. Instead, you're going to bring your arms up fast, between mine, and strike outward. Break the hold."
He guides my arms through the motion. Up, out, sharp and sudden.
His hands fall away.
"Good. Again."
We drill this too. Over and over until I stop hesitating, stop thinking, and just react.
Somewhere around the twentieth repetition, something shifts. Blake's hands are on my throat again, gentle, careful, and I bring my arms up to break the hold. But instead of stepping back, I step forward, into his space, close enough that our bodies are almost touching.
His eyes darken. "Peyton."
"What comes next?" I ask. "After I break the hold. What do I do then?"
"You run."
"And if I can't?"
"Then you fight."
"Show me."
There's a brief moment where neither of us moves. Where the air between us feels charged with something that has nothing to do with self-defense and everything to do with the way Blake's looking at me. And I like it. Like I'm dangerous. Like I'm a temptation. Like I'm both.
"This is a bad idea," he says quietly.
"Probably."
"You're vulnerable. I'm supposed to be protecting you."
"You are protecting me by teaching me how to protect myself."
"That's not what this is becoming."
He's right. I know he's right. The space between us is too small, too warm, charged with awareness that's been building since he stepped between me and Domenic on the terrace and saw a person instead of a pawn.
"Blake," I say softly.
"Don't." His jaw clenches. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
"Why is it hard?"
"Because you're beautiful and fierce and standing in my apartment in a dress that's been driving me insane for three fucking hours.
" The words come out rough, honest, like he didn't mean to say them, but I’m so glad he did.
"Because every instinct I have is telling me to kiss you, and every rule I have says that's exactly what I shouldn't do. "
My breath catches. "What if I want you to?"
"Then you're not thinking clearly. You're scared, you're in danger, and I'm the nearest thing to safety you've got. That's adrenaline talking, not choice."
"You don't get to decide what I'm thinking."
"No, but I get to decide what I'm willing to do." He steps back, creating distance that feels like a rejection worse than being stood up for the prom. "You should get some sleep. Real sleep. Tomorrow's going to be hell, and you need to be ready."
He's dismissing me. Pushing me away. Doing the right thing even though every instinct I have tells me he wants to do the opposite.
I should be grateful and appreciate that this notorious Delano killer has boundaries and ethics and all the things that make him different from the other men in his world and mine.
Instead, I'm furious.
“Do you like women?” I mock.
Blake's eyes flash. "Excuse me?"
“You either don’t like women or you’re a coward. You talk about teaching me to fight, about not being fair, about doing whatever it takes to survive, but the second things get real between us, you think I’m suddenly dumb and can’t make my own decisions.”
“You just found out life-changing news, learned how to fight, and now you want to fuck me? I’m just trying to protect you, Miss Quinn.”
“Oh, so it’s Miss Quinn now?” I scoff. “And what exactly are you protecting me from?
From wanting something? From feeling something?
From being human?" My hands are fisting in his shirt before I realize I'm moving.
"I've spent my entire life being so-called protected. Being handled. Being the dutiful daughter of a politician who, by the way, still hasn’t called me directly tonight.
And I'm done. So if you want to kiss me, kiss me.
And if you don't, stop pretending it's for my benefit. "
The muscle in his jaw jumps. “This would be a mistake.”
“That’s the best way to learn.”
For a moment, I think he's going to accept my challenge. His hands come up, hover near my waist like he's deciding. I start fantasizing about what it would be like to have him hold me, inside of me, consume me. A night in bed with him would be the cherry on top of this mind fuckery of a day.
Blake’s eyes are dark, hungry, full of want he's trying desperately to control.
Then he drops his hands and steps back.
My clit is practically throbbing, but now my ovaries weep with grief.
He doesn’t want me. Not badly enough.
"Bedroom's through there," he says, voice carefully neutral. "Lock the door if it makes you feel safer."
The rejection stings more than it should.
"For the record," I say quietly, "I don't need to lock the door. I trust you, Blake Delano. Even if you don't trust yourself."
Then I turn and walk away before he can see exactly how much his restraint hurts.
The bedroom is simple, clean, impersonal.
I close the door—don't lock it—and lean against it, breathing hard.
Through the wood, I hear Blake moving in the living room.
Pacing, probably. Possibly, fighting the same battle I am.
Hopefully, regretting his error in judgement because if he had taken me up on my offer, he could have had me however he wanted tonight.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, wondering if it’s finally my jerk of a father checking to see if I’m alive.
Nope.
Unknown Number: Sleep well, little Kingsley. You become official soon. And then the real fun begins.
I delete the message and turn off the phone.
Whoever that was assumes I now know about my inheritance.
I’m starting to feel like everyone in the entire town knew but me, and that feels really shitty.
But I can’t dwell on those feelings. Tomorrow the war starts officially, and I'll need to be smart, strategic, and step into my main character energy.
But tonight I'm just Peyton, tired, scared, wanting things I shouldn't want from a man who's determined to do the right thing even when the wrong thing feels inevitable.
I change out of the dress into one of Blake's t-shirts I find in a dresser. It smells like him. Coffee and something darker. A small part of me wants to snoop through the rest of his drawers to learn more about who he is but I’m too tired for it.
I climb into a bed that's too big, too empty, too safe.
And I don't sleep.
Neither does Blake.
I can hear him in the living room, pacing, keeping watch, probably fighting demons I think I'm starting to understand.
We're both prisoners of our own making.
Tonight, I survive the wanting.
Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll learn how to break free.
That's all I can do as I slide myself under an unfamiliar comforter that wraps me in cozy warmth before tomorrow’s storm.