Chapter 13 Striking Distance
Striking Distance
Each strike echoed through the studio—measured and relentless, a pound of effort she could claim, a control no one could ever steal.
Arden adjusted her stance, muscles taut and burning, the next punch driving forward with pure intent.
“Again,” her instructor called, stepping back, raising the pad higher.
She exhaled, reset, and threw another punch.
The impact shuddered up her arm, grounding her in the sensation of movement, of action—of something she could control.
She’d been coming for weeks. She wasn’t new to self-defense, but Krav Maga was different.
No wasted motion. No excess.
Just efficiency.
Get in. Get out. Survive.
She needed that more than she liked it.
Because the more she thought about the club, about Gideon, about the tangled mess he was trying to unravel.
The more she felt something dangerous, deeper, stirring inside her. Quiet. Insistent. Impossible to outrun.
She threw another punch. Harder this time.
As if she could knock the thoughts from her head.
Gideon Blackwell.
The man was a contradiction wrapped in quiet intensity.
His family had built an empire on exploitation, on taking. Generations of Blackwells, bleeding others dry.
But Gideon wasn’t like them.
Not his father.
Not his brother.
Not any of the ghosts in his bloodline.
He was trying to undo what they’d done.
She could hear his voice, quiet but resolute, as he told her about the heirs’ properties, about the families his own had devastated.
Afterward, she’d gone home and looked it up herself. Read story after story of land stolen not by force, but by silence. Families stripped of everything they’d built because they hadn’t had the money, or the right last name, to protect it.
Some stories came out of the Deep South, where land promised after emancipation was gutted by courts and crooked deeds.
But others hit closer to home—old farms in the hollers and ridges of Appalachia, where poverty, pride, and bad luck left families clinging to land by little more than memory.
It wasn’t always the same history.
But it was the same grief.
It stayed with her, that quiet theft.
Because it wasn’t history. It was still happening.
And Gideon wasn’t talking about change. He was fighting for it.
And it shouldn’t matter.
But it did.
A counterstrike came, and she dodged, breath steady, body moving on instinct.
Because she understood what it meant to have something stolen.
Not land.
Not wealth.
But choices.
Stability.
A future that wasn’t shaped by someone else’s destruction.
Another strike. Another impact.
Sweat beaded along her temple.
She wanted to ask if it ever felt like drowning. Dragging the weight of sins you didn’t choose. Sinking slow. Breathless.
If he ever wondered whether he’d claw his way out of it, or if it would swallow him whole.
She wanted to ask him a lot of things.
And that was becoming a problem.
“Alright, Rivers, let’s wrap it up.”
She dropped her hands, stepping back, breathing deep through the burn in her muscles.
Her instructor nodded in approval, tapping the pads together. “Good work. You come at it with a lot of focus.”
Arden huffed a quiet breath, reaching for her water bottle. “That’s one word for it.”
“Whatever’s driving you, don’t let it go,” he said, watching her with a flicker of something unreadable. He glanced toward the entrance, sunlight slanting in. A stark contrast to the weight she carried in every movement. "Just make sure it doesn't burn you out from the inside."
She didn’t answer.
Maybe she didn’t know how to survive without burning.
?
A muted clink of glass splintered the silence, a whisper against polished wood. The club rested in its pre-opening hush, its usual opulence holding its breath.
Above, the chandeliers hung quiet and golden, waiting as if the room itself were holding its breath until night gave it back its pulse.
Behind the bar, Arden moved with a steady focus, her cloth sweeping the counter in clean, unhurried strokes. It was more habit than necessity—an outlet for the tension coiled in her shoulders from that morning’s session.
She’d come straight from Krav Maga, muscles still charged from the session. That edge of energy? That was part of what she liked about this place. The focus it demanded. The rhythm. The people. Well. Some of the people.
She wasn’t even aware she’d started humming, not at first. The melody eased from her lips without thought—low, instinctive, drawn from somewhere deep in her bones.
Almost heaven, West Virginia...
Her voice barely stirred the air, more breath than sound.
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River...
The old song wove through the quiet like a loose thread, catching on the hush of footsteps and the soft clatter of glass.
Then—
Clink.
A sharper sound behind her. A glass set down with deliberate weight.
"Wait a damn second."
She turned to find Marco staring at her like she’d confessed to a secret identity.
Fatima, on the other hand, looked thrilled—one brow lifted, lips curved in anticipation, leaning into the drama.
“What?” Arden asked, blinking.
Marco jabbed a finger at her as if she had committed high treason behind the bar. “Tell me I did not just hear our brooding, monochrome, jazz-shunning bartender humming John freaking Denver.”
Arden paused. “I—what?”
“Don’t play innocent.” He eyed her with mock suspicion. Like he was halfway through decoding a mystery—and enjoying every second of it. That was Country Roads. I would bet my entire vinyl collection.”
Fatima’s grin widened. “Oh, this just keeps getting better.”
Arden rolled her eyes, surrendering. “Fine. Yeah. I hummed it.”
Marco reared back like it was a revelation. “You? Arden Rivers? Miss ‘I don’t sing along to the jazz trio’ Arden Rivers? Just casually serenading us with West Virginia’s unofficial state anthem?”
Fatima laughed, bracelets catching the light. “Wait, hold on. You are from West Virginia, right?”
Arden hesitated. “…Yeah.”
Fatima slapped the bar, bracelets jingling, delighted. “This is gold.”
Marco’s eyes lit up like he’d been handed a sacred mission. “Oh, you know what this means.”
“No,” Arden said quickly, pointing a warning finger at him. “Absolutely not. Don’t you even…”
He spread his arms wide in mock reverence. “Our mysterious, too-cool-for-this-place girl is now—and forever—Mountain Mama.”
Fatima cackled, nodding like it had been ordained.
Arden groaned. “I hate both of you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Marco said, sliding a bottle into place like nothing had happened. “But you’re stuck with us now, Mountain Mama.”
Arden turned back to the shelves, scowling. Almost convincingly. “Menaces,” she muttered.
"Love you too, Mountain Mama," Marco called, all smug affection.
She rolled her eyes, but the grin broke through anyway. Unruly. Warm. A reminder she wasn't as untouchable as she pretended.
And maybe she didn’t mind being stuck with them.
?
The apartment held traces of takeout and the faint ghost of citrus. Likely the last breath of one of Penny’s candles, burned down to nothing.
Curled up on the couch, towel-dried hair damp and skin still cooling, Arden felt exhaustion pulling at her edges, blurring the sharpness of her thoughts.
She’d spent the afternoon at The Blackwell Room, digging into the machinery behind the glamour, seeing how the place operated beneath all that polish.
She kept her focus sharp, diving into ledger updates, scheduling notes, the everyday minutiae hidden behind luxury.
But Gideon was there.
And she felt him.
The awareness that crackled like static in the air.
The way his eyes tracked her when he thought she wasn’t looking. As though cataloging her every move.
She did her best to maintain her composure, but the sense of him lingered. A current beneath the surface. Impossible to ignore.
Her mind was restless when Penny flopped onto the couch beside her, a technicolor blanket wrapped tight around her small frame. Arden had long since given up questioning where she found them. Against all odds, Penny made neon look like home.
"You’ve been weird today," Penny announced, stealing a piece of naan from Arden’s plate.
Arden raised an eyebrow. “Thanks for that deep analysis.”
“I’m serious.” Penny tore the naan in half, waving it for emphasis. “You’ve been all broody and intense, and usually, I would assume that means a certain brooding billionaire was involved, but since you’re not glaring into the distance and sighing dramatically, I’m thinking this is something else.”
Arden scoffed. “I do not sigh dramatically.”
Penny just stared at her.
Arden rolled her eyes, leaning back into the couch. “I went to the Krav Maga studio this morning. That’s probably why I’m quiet. I’m just tired.”
Penny made a doubtful sound but didn’t press. “I’m guessing you threw some people around?”
Arden shrugged. “It’s not about that. It’s about control. About knowing you can handle yourself.”
Something in her voice must have given her away, because Penny shifted, expression softening.
“Yeah,” she said, quieter now. “I get that.”
A beat of silence passed.
The kind that invited truth.
Penny hesitated, then asked, “Was that always something you worried about?”
Arden glanced down at her wine glass, fingers tapping the stem.
She knew where Penny was leading.
And she was too tired to sidestep it.
“You never talk about your family,” Penny said, careful. Not pushing.
Arden inhaled slowly.
She could keep deflecting. Keep burying it.
Or she could let someone see it.
Even a little.
“There’s not much to say,” Arden started, then caught herself.
The same automatic response she always gave.
Penny made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Try again.”
Arden released a slow breath, tipping her head against the couch.
Studying the ceiling was easier than meeting Penny’s eyes—keen, insatiable in their curiosity, and entirely unwilling to let this go.
“I didn’t have a great childhood,” she admitted, keeping her voice level.