“If you say so—”
“I do.”
“Then let’s practice.”
“So eager to end up on your back, I see,” he taunts.
I roll my eyes and get into the fighting position. “I’m not your type, remember?” I remind him.
“Impossible to forget,” he delivers without missing a beat.
It still feels ridiculous, but I go with it, shifting my weight from foot to foot like I’ve seen others do before they beat the shit outof each other. Kingston doesn’t do any of the things he taught me. Instead, he just faces me with his arms crossed.
“Do I just try and hit you now?” I ask, my eyes flickering toward him.
He raises a brow. “That’s the general idea, unless you would rather just look at me.”
I step forward, throwing a punch at his jaw—more emotion than form—and am greeted with nothing but air again. He gracefully steps to the side, and before I can catch my bearings, he kicks out his leg, bringing both of mine out from under me. I land heavily on my back, the breath rushing out of my lungs in a swift exhale.
Gasping for a solid breath and coming up short, I try to roll to the side. It feels as if both lungs are filled with a thousand needles instead of oxygen. I keep trying to get a sliver of breath, begging my lungs to cooperate, but they are currently taking a hiatus.
Kingston crouches down in front of me. “When you strike, do it with resolve and purpose. Don’t lash out blindly.”
I raise my eyes, full of hatred, to glare at him. I can’t respond because that would require being able to breathe, but I put everything I am thinking into my scowl.
“Again,” he orders, rising to his feet.
I push to my knees, the breath slowly returning but not fast enough. I continue to try to gulp the air greedily, making small gasping noises as I do. The sounds of fists meeting flesh echo through the gym, filling the silence as I try to get to my feet.
“Keep that chin tucked. Don’t give them an easy target,” he orders while watching me regain my footing.
I step forward again, throwing another weak punch that doesn’t land.
He grabs my extended arm before I can pull it back and spins me in place. My back crashes against his chest. His smell,woodsy with a hint of something spicy, maybe bergamot, wraps around me. How can he smell so alluring when he’s covered in sweat and assaulting people?
“Always expect the unexpected,” he breathes in my ear. “Your opponent will use any opening to bring you to your knees.”
I’m not short, but I’m not tall either. Averagely average, but being held captive in his arms makes me feel incredibly feminine.
Fragile but not vulnerable.
“Okay, you can let go now.” The words come out flat and controlled.
“Is that what you’ll demand the enemy to do?” he asks, his voice low and mocking.
Both of my arms are pinned in front of me, rendering them useless. Throwing my head back would be ineffective because it would just hit his chest. I know nothing about evasive maneuvers to escape. His strength outmatches mine ten to one.
“Do you yield?” he asks.
“Never,” I bite out.
He lets out a deep chuckle, more threat than actual laugh. “What would you’re beloved Ambrose have you do?” he asks, leaning in close.
The question takes me aback because Ambrose wouldn’t put me in this scenario. He wouldn’t throw my lack of skill set in my face and demand I acknowledge it. No, he would teach and guide me. I’d feel safe and capable. I don’t say any of this, though, because Kingston wouldn’t understand. He’d just judge and mock me further for my answer.
“He’d probably recommend I get as far away from you as possible,” I snap.
“Then do it,” he says.
