“First rule of self-defense: Your goal is always escape, not victory. You’re smaller and physically weaker than most potential threats. Trying to win a fair fight will get you hurt or killed. So we don’t fight fair.”
He demonstrated a series of movements—fast, brutal, efficient. Strike the throat, gouge the eyes, drive your knee into vulnerable anatomy, and run. There was nothing elegant or honorable about them; they were survival moves.
“Your turn,” he said, looking at Anya.
The girl’s expression turned stubborn. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You will not. I am much larger and more experienced. But the muscle memory of these movements could save your life someday.” His voice gentled. “I know it is frightening. But fear is just information telling you to pay attention. Use it, don’t let it use you.”
Anya took a breath, then launched herself at him with all the awkward enthusiasm of a thirteen-year-old who’d never thrown a punch in her life. He guided her through the movements patiently, correcting her stance and angle, showing her how to use her body weight for maximum impact despite her size.
She watched, fascinated. He was a natural teacher—calm and encouraging, breaking complex movements into manageable steps. When Anya successfully executed a throat strike that made him cough slightly, he grinned and praised her form. When she lost her balance and nearly face-planted, he caught her easily and helped her find her center of gravity again.
“Your turn, s’kara,” he said after thirty minutes of drilling Anya through the basics.
She passed Mikoz to Anya and stepped onto the mat, suddenly uneasily aware of her body—all soft curves and middle-aged stiffness. She’d never been athletic and had always preferred books to sports.
“I am going to grab you,” he said. “Just like an attacker might. I want you to break the hold and escape. Do not think, just react.”
He moved behind her and wrapped one arm around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides. His body was warm against her back, solid and unyielding, and for a moment her mind went completely blank. Not fear. Something else entirely.
“Corinne.” His voice rumbled through her, low and intimate despite the training context. “Focus. How do you escape?”
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. His scent surrounded her—that spicy scent that made her head swim. His tail had curved around her waist, a warm weight that felt more like an embrace than a restraint.
“I—” She swallowed hard. “I don’t remember.”
“Stomp on my foot,” he prompted. “Drive your elbow into my ribs. Drop your weight and twist. Break my balance and run.”
She tried to follow instructions, but her body wasn’t cooperating. Every nerve ending had lit up like someone had plugged her into a power source, awareness cascading through her in waves that had nothing to do with self-defense and everything to do with the male holding her.
“This is painful to watch,” Anya said from the sidelines. “You two need to just make out and get it over with.”
He released her immediately, stepping back with what might have been embarrassment if Cire could feel such things, while her face burned hot enough to melt steel.
“Perhaps we should take a break,” he said, voice carefully neutral.
“Good idea.” She practically fled to the water dispenser on the far wall, gulping down liquid she didn’t taste while trying to get her racing heart under control.
This was absurd. She was a grown woman, not a teenager with her first crush. She’d been married, for crying out loud. She had navigated academic politics and conference flirtations and all the complicated tangles of adult attraction. She should be able to handle a simple training session without dissolving into a puddle of hormones and inappropriate thoughts.
Anya appeared at her elbow, expression knowing beyond her years. “You’ve got it bad.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please. You look at him like he’s chocolate and you’ve been on a diet for a year.” She glanced back at Selik, who was very deliberately adjusting equipment on the other side of the room. “And he looks at you the same way. It’s kind of gross but also kind of sweet.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Why? Because he’s an alien? Because we’re refugees and he’s helping us? Because you’re scared of getting hurt again?” Anya’s voice softened. “Dad’s been gone for well over a year. You’re allowed to like someone new.”
Her throat tightened. “You’d be okay with that?”
“I’d be okay with you being happy. And he makes you happy. I can see it—the way you smile when he walks in, the way you relax when he’s around, like you can finally stop carrying everything alone.” The girl bumped her shoulder gently. “You’ve been taking care of everyone else for so long. Maybe it’s time someone took care of you.”
When was the last time someone had taken care of her? David had been her friend and partner, but she’d been the one managing their household, supporting his career, parenting his daughter, holding everything together when he got lost in research.
Selik didn’t ask her to hold anything together. He just… helped. He fixed things without being asked and made their lives easier in dozens of tiny ways. He gave her space to breathe.
