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His hum vibrates through my ribs. “Politics stinks worse than blood.”

I hug him until he pulls me away, clearly wondering what’s on my mind.

He studies me like he’s trying to decipher a riddle carved into my face.

I can tell he’s thinking by the silence.

“I want to stand beside you, not behind.” My throat tightens as I attempt to explain my expression. “I want control. And for you to not have to worry every time you step away from me for two minutes. I want to learn how to fight.”

Emotion flashes in his eyes. Pride? Fear? Maybe both. He’s used to getting his way, and I’m a foot slamming into his perfect beehive. He leans back, folding his arms. “Once you enter that world, you can’t leave.”

“Then let’s burn the bridge.” The response spills out before I think twice.

He lets the silence judge me again, then nods once. “When do you want to start?”

“Tonight?”

He grins as we head out into the yard under the swollen moon, and I chuckle. The atmosphere feels alive with singing crickets, the intense, sweet smell of freshly cut grass, and the cologne of the man by my side. Training mats lie spread across the grass. He rolls up his sleeves, all business.

“Feet apart,” he orders. “Weight balanced.”

I mimic him without the grace. He steps behind me, his large hands adjusting my shoulders and shifting my hips. His firm touch lingers longer than necessary. Heat skitters along my skin, leaving goosebumps beneath the fabric.

My lungs forget how to work.

“Relax.” His breath warms my neck.

I can’t. Not with him this close. Not with his hands on me.

“Again.”

My pulse races. I throw a weak, distracted punch that the bag absorbs with a pitiful thud.

He gnarls, his frustration thick. “Strike like you mean it, ragazza. The bag is your enemy. Break it, or it breaks you.”

His hand covers mine, guiding my fist. “Like this.”

The roughness of his palm against my knuckles shoots electricity straight through me.

I let anger flare inside me…at Vincent, at a world that spins on cruelty. My fist flies with more force. The sound echoes. Another, sharper strike.

“Better.” His praise is a rare coin, heavy and valuable.

He shifts his stance. “Throws next. First, you learn to fall.” Before I can brace, he sweeps my legs out from under me.

The mat slams into my back, air rushing out in a painful laugh. He kneels, showing me how to roll, how to brace. Again and again, he drops me, and again and again, he catches me.

Pinned under him, I can feel his breath on my lips as his weight presses me into the mat. “Break free,” he grunts.

I wriggle and thrash. Somehow, I slip loose. I roll and end up straddling him by accident.

His eyes widen and flicker with emotion. For one dizzying moment, I feel powerful.

Then he flips us effortlessly before restraining my wrists. Just like that, he’s back in control.

The world shrinks to heartbeats and shared breath. A few seconds later, he releases me and rears back like I’ve burned him. “Enough.” His voice is gravel. A warning.

My anger spikes. “You think I can’t handle this?”