Nicole
I wake up with purpose thrumming through my veins like caffeine, except this energy comes from somewhere deeper. Today’s the day I stop overthinking and start acting on what I want.
What I want is Quintus. The realization sits in my chest like a secret I’m finally ready to share.
Morning self-defense training provides the perfect opportunity. Maya’s drilling us on redirection techniques—the same moves Quintus demonstrated yesterday while making my pulse race with every careful touch. I could probably execute them flawlessly now, but that’s not the point.
The point is having a legitimate reason to seek him out.
I wait until training ends, and the other women drift toward the dining hall for lunch. Quintus is organizing equipment in the storage shed adjacent to the training yard, methodical as always, completely focused.
Perfect.
“Quintus?” My voice comes out steady despite the butterflies staging a riot in my stomach. “I was hoping you could show me that redirection move again. I think I’m doing it wrong.”
He looks up, something flickering in his expression—surprise, maybe, or interest. “Of course. But Maya said you executed it perfectly this morning.”
“Maya’s being kind. I felt off-balance during the sequence.” Not exactly a lie. I was definitely off-balance, just not in the way I’m implying.
“Let me see your form.”
He sets down the practice sword he’s been holding and steps into the training area. I follow, hyperaware of every inch between us, my skin too tight to contain me. Standing closer than necessary, I’m not overtly flirtatious, but I’m close enough that the air hums.
“Show me the problem.” His eyes track down my body—a professional assessment, though his gaze lingers just a beat too long.
I demonstrate, deliberately awkward so he’ll correct me. His hands settle on my hips, and the contact sends electricity darting up my spine.
“Ah. Your weight distribution is wrong. May I?”
“Please.”
His hands settle more firmly on my hips to adjust my stance. I let myself lean into the correction more than necessary, and feel him pause for just a moment before continuing the instruction.
“In theludus, we learned to read opponents instantly—their strengths, weaknesses, where they’d break under pressure. With you, I see only strength taking root.”
He shifts his stance, one foot tracing a deliberate line across the mat as if marking out a path. “Better. The body must follow that line. Now—watch the hand position. Do you feel how the leverage turns in your favor?
“I think so. Maybe run through it once more?”
Something in his expression shifts—awareness creeping in that this might be about more than technique. But he doesn’t call me on it, just nods and positions himself as my practice partner.
“Remember, use my momentum against me.”
This time, when he grabs my wrist, I execute the move flawlessly, but I don’t step away afterward. Instead, I stay in his space, close enough to see that his gray eyes are darker than usual and observe the slight catch in his breathing. Every nerve feels caught in the charged air, like a live wire waiting to snap.
“Much better,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t release my wrist immediately. His thumb brushes across my pulse point—probably accidental, but my body doesn’t care. Heat races through me, swift and undeniable.
We freeze, his hand circling my wrist, both of us breathing harder than the exercise warrants. Then he steps back, professional mask restored.
“You learn quickly,” he says, tone layered.
“I’m a very hands-on learner.”
The double entendre hangs. His pupils dilate before he clears his throat and takes a half-step toward the shed.
“I should finish organizing.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
