The gym falls silent, everyone’s eyes on us.
“Basic rule of instruction—you don’t strike an untrained student. You let them learn control first.”
“I’m licensed,” Nick counters, crossing his arms.
I exhale through gritted teeth. So much testosterone for so early in the morning.
Thank goodness my bodyguard, Ramsey, is doing his regular perimeter check, or I’d have yet another man arguing over me.
Through their escalating voices, I struggle to find something stable to pull myself up with. My hand connects with what I think is a wall, but warm pressure envelops my fingers. As my focus returns, I realize I’m gripping Dante’s forearm as he helps me stand. The solid strength of him momentarily disorients me. I pull my hand away, irritated with myself for noticing anything beyond my throbbing jaw.
“Hey!” I snap, wincing as pain shoots through my face. “This is unprofessional. I’m fine.” Neither man acknowledges me.
Dante steps forward, his presence commanding the space between practice mats and mirrored walls. “Licensed or not, I’m a professional fighter. I am the stunt coordinator consultant on this production.” I flinch at his authoritative tone. “I know how to train beginners without injuring them.”
“Well,” Nick sneers, “you weren’t professional enough to qualify for the Olympics this year, were you?”
A flash of genuine hurt crosses Dante’s face before it hardens into anger. This is escalating quickly.
“There will be no fighting on my movie set,” I announce, mustering as much authority as I can.
Dante turns, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “I wasn’t going to fight him.” I instinctively step back. “You should never get hurt like this during basic training,” he continues, his eyes darkening with something I’m not entirely comfortable with.
“It was an accident,” Nick mutters, looking away.
“I’m honestly fine,” I insist, though my rapid breathing might not be entirely from the adrenaline.
Or maybe it is. It’s difficult to distinguish between genuine concern and the rush that comes after being struck by someone twice your size.
Dante turns back to Nick. “Get her some ice, Mr. License.”
Nick glances at my jaw, which must be visibly swelling by now. “I’ll get you some ice. Let’s take ten.” He walks off, leaving me alone with Dante.
I huff so loudly there could be steam coming out of my nose.Don’t they get it?
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work.” I bend down to pick up my waster, but my head throbs so much I nearly topple over. I grit my teeth, swallowing a wave of dizziness.No weakness.
Dante’s foot doesn’t move. My mouth goes dry. I’m so close to his solid legs, I can see the outline of his quad strength through his sweats. “Absolutely not.”
“Excuse me?” I glance up at him. “Get your foot off my training sword.”
He stands still.
Why is he staring at me so intensely? Why do I care? Why can’t I seem to stop staring back even though there’s a roomfulof people watching us? This issonot the kind of drama I want following me on set.
“Please,” I add, hating how pleading I sound.
“You should take me up on my offer and let me show you a thing or two.”
“I’m working with a professional,” I reply.
He scoffs, and a laugh escapes that seems to loosen the tightness in his shoulders, making the muscles in his neck flex. “A professional would never let this—” He reaches for my jaw, and I freeze.What is he doing?My heart hammers so loud I’m sure he can hear it. But then, as if he suddenly realizes that he’s about to touch me, his hand drops away, swiping through his hair instead. “—happen to you. Or any of the students they train. Ever.”
“It’s my fault,” I say, feeling dazed, though whether it’s from the hit or from Dante, I can’t tell. “I shouldn’t have pulled my gear off and started attacking him.”
“Most definitely not your fault.”
My body betrays me at the softness in his voice, making my breath shallow.
