Chapter twenty-three
Damon, Emma and Annie's Home, London
Emma
Tonight, Damon has told me we’re going to the gym and I’m going to learn to protect myself.
He’s not taking any risks with my safety, but his priority is that I am capable enough to stand up to whatever bastard is trying to kill me now.
The results of the incident in my apartment earlier this year did swing in my favor—however, much of it was luck. The fact I survived is beyond belief.
Then on my run, it was my brain rather than my body that enabled me to put distance between myself and my attackers.
The setting being a public park meant I was close to too many sets of eyes for them to risk much more.
However, these men are not stupid, and Moreno has made it quite clear he wants me.
I know his intention will be to seek revenge for the time behind bars that my words caused him to serve.
With my history, violence is something I’ve always avoided.
I suppose losing my parents the way I did, it could have gone one of two ways.
I chose to use my brain and seek justice legally, rather than with a gun.
Others don’t choose the same path. Some of the kids I met in the childrens’ homes are already dead or in prison.
Most of them ended up in the system after choosing the route of aggression.
It was obvious from our daily life in the home that they couldn’t control their emotions.
There wasn’t a day that passed when an argument didn’t ensue.
I lived in a small white manor house near the sea in Devon along with ten other orphans.
As I was already in my mid-teens when I lost my parents, I was one of the oldest.
Some of us came from tragic circumstances like me, while others had been abandoned or born into deadbeat families who wouldn’t or couldn’t care for them.
The adults who cared for us in the manor house were kind but not truly invested.
Our maintenance was their job; they all had lives beyond the walls and garden of the orphanage.
The sad but true reality was that no living soul wanted us.
As I stand looking in my full-length mirror, I pull my hair into a ponytail on top of my head then split it in two and yank.
The band tightens against my scalp. My pink cropped sports top fully covers my breasts; the wide white band beneath offers further support.
When I started running, I invested in firm support so as not to lose an eye from my nipples.
The matching leggings along with pale pink trainers complete the look.
I’ll look like a little girl’s doll kicking the shit out of a punching bag this evening.
Even though the summer nights are warm, I slip on a thin sports jacket to cover my midriff until we get there.
Once I’m satisfied that I look the part, I go off in search of Damon.
I find him in his bedroom; the sound of his voice carries through the crack in the barely open door. As I lift my hand to knock, I hear him speaking to Annie.
“Mummy,” he says, exaggerating each syllable of the word. “This is Mummy.” I freeze, unsure what to do. Knowing that the bed is situated to the right of the door, I take the chance of pushing it open slightly. Thankfully, it’s silent—unlike every other door in this old house.
In an attempt to keep out of sight, I move to the left of the doorway so I have an almost direct view of the bed. Damon is sitting with his back to me, though turned slightly so I can see Annie on his knee and a book in his hands.
“Mummy,” he says again. That’s when I realize what he’s holding is a photo album. He’s ensuring his daughter sees Connie, ensuring she knows who the woman in the photos is and what the plan was originally before she was cruelly taken from them.
The emotion that surfaces is one I’ve never felt before, a combination of awe, pain, and uncertainty swirling in my chest. Not wanting to be caught snooping, I reverse silently and go downstairs to wait for him.
He appears ten minutes later with Annie, still chatting away to her as if she can reply.
I’m sitting on a single armchair which sits next to a side table in the hallway.
There’s always a pile of magazines and newspapers on it to be read.
Damon changes them often; most I would imagine go unread now Connie is gone, but it’s a habit he maintains still.
I watch him descend the stairs, one stable foot in front of the other. He’s dressed for the gym in his standard shorts and sports top, this time in royal blue. I stand as they reach me. He leans down and pecks my cheek. “You ready?”
“Always,” I respond firmly. “I’m going to kick your ass, Chief Constable.”
“As long as you kiss it better after, I don’t mind.” His lips sit millimeters from mine, and the sensation of his breath causes my nipples to stiffen beneath my top. “I can’t wait for you to show me your moves.”
Annie giggles, and we both glance at her. I am acutely aware that the three of us are in less than a square meter of space. With his free hand, Damon drops his fingers to my hip then runs them up under my jacket. His warm fingertips graze my bare skin, causing it to prickle with excitement.
“What will we start with?” I ask softly.
“At the gym?” he questions, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, the gym.”
“Basic defense moves.”
“What moves?”
“You’ll see once we get to the gym.” He kisses me again, deeper this time, as the front door opens and Mrs. D wanders in.
“Oh,” she trills. “Sorry for interrupting.”
I step back from him, embarrassed at being caught mid-kiss. I feel my cheeks heat rapidly as Damon turns in her direction.
“Thank you for coming,” he says. She scuttles across the wooden floor, arms wide and ready to take Annie from him.
“Any time,” she says. “I love looking after this little angel.” She picks her out of his arms and cradles her masterfully. “We will have a lovely evening, won’t we Little Miss? Now, you two run along,” she orders. “There’s no rush to return, I’ll put her to bed and read my book until you get back.”
Damon leans down and kisses his daughter’s forehead. Both sets of adult eyes turn to me as he holds out his hand. I take it, quickly tickle Annie on the chin, and we leave.
***
Hunter’s gym is closed this evening. We’re the only people here. It’s vaster than I ever expected it to be; there seems to be dozens of punching bags and other equipment scattered around. As we enter the workout area, I stop still when I see the massive cage in the corner.
“What is that?” I spit, completely taken aback. Damon is holding my hand as he leads me into the place he spends hours every week. He is reading a message on his phone, and my question causes him to turn to face me.
“What?”
“That,” I say, gesturing toward the cage.
“Hunter’s playpen,” he answers and shrugs. “He occasionally holds fights down here, and everyone loves a cage fight. They pay more to attend.”
“A cage fight,” I stammer. “Do you ever cage fight?”
“In the past, but not for a few years though. My boss isn’t too pleased when a Chief Constable appears with black eyes and broken ribs.”
“Are you like those wrestlers on TV? You know, the ones that hit each other over the head with chairs?”
“Um…it depends. Hunter can be imaginative.”
“Damon,” I mutter disapprovingly. “Are these fights even legal?” He doesn’t answer my question, merely smirks then turns and starts to tug me toward some mats in the corner. Once at the edge he releases me and removes his shoes and socks. “What are you doing? I thought we were going to box?”
“No, I’m going teach you how to defend yourself if attacked. Take off your shoes and come join me.” He stands in the center of the workout area. His shrewd eyes watch my every move as I unzip my jacket, drop it to the floor, then discard the trainers and socks on my feet. I walk over to face him.
“First of all,” he says. “I want you to always carry something sharp. A small penknife, keys, a short knitting needle.”
“A knitting needle. Do I look like a woman who knits?”
“It’s not to make sweaters, it’s to have on you.”
“Why?”
“Because a small, concealed weapon can be the difference between life and death,” he replies bluntly.
“If you’re feeling threatened or followed, you grip it in your fist with the sharp point exposed.”
He removes his car keys from his pocket, takes my right hand and places them in the palm.
He then uses long, strong fingers to wrap my hand around the metal to create a fist but leaves the point of a key exposed.
He steps back. We stare at each other for a beat and my heart flips.
“To make the most impact with this, you need to attack from the front. As I approach you, you raise your hand and thrust downward. Aim for the face, the neck—anywhere to inflict pain and cause the person to backtrack. Let’s try, shall we.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper.
“I’m not asking you to stab me, Emma. Pretend.”
We run through the scenario a few times, him pouncing and me pretending to skewer him with his own car key. On our final run-through, I get overzealous and scrape the metal against his cheek. He all but yelps.
“Sorry,” I screech and drop the weapon onto the floor. He laughs.
“Okay, I think we can say you’ve nailed that.” I walk over to him, throw my arms around his neck, and kiss him softly. His arms wrap around my middle, pulling me to him, and I feel his cock harden against my stomach. “No distractions,” he mutters.
“This is an apology.”
“Apology accepted,” he says, then removes my hands from his neck. “Next, the elbow strike.” I roll my eyes at him, and he nips my butt cheek with his fingers. “I’ll turn that ass pink for disobedience, Spitfire. Be a good girl for once and do as you’re told.”
“Okay, show me how to kick your ass.”
The next thirty minutes is filled with various elbow moves which let me hit the attacker in the face.
Damon has me working on a nearby punching bag, again and again.
It wobbles as I strike. I watch the red and black leather sway from side to side on a long chain.
I don’t hear him approaching from behind; he stalks up silently.
The first moment I’m aware of his presence is when he grabs my hair and is pulling me backward.