Dante’s expression darkened. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
No. What I was worried about was the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss and how it calmed my heart. What I was worried about was how badly I wanted to fall back into him and to use him as an escape from the nightmare my father had turned my life into.
“I just think it’s practical,” I said instead. “Given how I’ve been kidnapped once before.”
I waited breathlessly while he studied me, thinking. Then, at last, he checked his watch, and that’s when I knew I’d won before he even said a word. “Alright. Let’s start with the basics.”
I followed him to a clear area in the center of the gym, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach when he turned to face me.
“First things first,” he said, all business now. “Stance is everything. Your feet need to be shoulder-width apart.”
I mimicked his position, feeling awkward and stiff.
“Relax your shoulders,” he instructed. “You’re too tense.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t standing inches away from someone who made his pulse race just by existing.
Dante stepped closer, his hands coming up to adjust my posture. “Like this,” he said, his voice dropping lower as his fingers pressed gently on my shoulders, guiding them down and back.
His touch burned through the thin fabric of my t-shirt, and I bit into my cheek to remind myself I was here to train.
Right?
“Now, hands up,” he continued, lifting my arms into position. “Protect your face and keep your chin down.”
His fingers wrapped around my wrists, positioning them just so. I wondered what those hands would feel like against other parts of my body, and immediately cursed my mind.
“Good.” He circled behind me. “Now, when you throw a punch, it’s not just your arm. Use your whole body. Power comes from your legs and your core.”
His hand pressed lightly against my lower back, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Sorry,” he said, misinterpreting my reaction. “Too much?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. Show me again.”
He resumed his position behind me. This time, his hand settled more firmly on my hip. “When you punch, you pivot on your back foot, like this.” He guided my body through the motion, his chest nearly pressed against my back.
I bit my lip, focusing on the movement rather than the heat of his body so close to mine. The motion helped—channeling all that confused energy into something physical, something I could control.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as I threw a punch into the air. “Again, but this time with more hip rotation.”
I repeated the motion, putting more force behind it. The exertion felt good, cleansing somehow.
“Better,” he said, stepping away to grab some hand wraps. “Let’s get these on you before we move to the bag.”
For the next hour, Dante guided me through the basic moves for boxing, throwing in a few for self-defense. With time, that mat, that bag, and I became one. With every strike, jab, and hit, I thought less and less of my father’s betrayal.
By the time we finished, I was drenched in sweat and breathing hard, but my mind felt clearer than it had in days.
“Not bad for a first session,” Dante said, handing me a bottle of water. “You’re a natural.”
I drank deeply, then poured some over my head, letting the cool water run down my neck. When I looked up, Dante was watching me, his eyes dark in a way that made my stomach flip.
“Thanks,” I said, suddenly shy. “It helped. You were right about that.”
He nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “We can make it a regular thing, if you want.”
“I’d like that,” I admitted, surprised by how much I meant it.
