"I'm not planning to walk away."
"Then what are you planning?"
"To finish what I started." He looks at me, and his eyes are clear, certain, full of purpose that probably should scare me. "White Ember was one warehouse. One operation. But Silas has others. The Hollow Club has others. This whole town is built on taking from people who can't fight back. And I'm done pretending I don't see it."
"That's not protection. That's revolution."
"Maybe." He shrugs. "But right now, revolution starts with keeping you alive. Everything else comes after."
I should protest and tell him that I'm not a cause or a crusade or a reason to burn down his family's empire. And I’m not exactly his sole reason to do it, but the truth is, I want to burn it down too.
For my mother. For Irina and Elena and all the others whose names I don't know but whose stories I can guess.
For myself.
"Teach me," I say.
Blake frowns. "Teach you what?"
"How to survive this Godforsaken town and remain human. You said you would. That was one of my conditions. So teach me." I lift my chin to meet his gaze directly. "Starting now."
"Now? It's one in the morning."
"And Silas's men could kick down that door any minute. Or the Kingsleys could find me. Or the Hollow Club could decide I'm worth more dead than alive." I set down my coffee cup with enough force to make noise. "I'm done being the thing people fight over. I want to be the thing they're afraid to touch."
Something dangerous flickers in Blake's eyes. I don’t know him well enough to know exactly what, but if I had to guess, perhaps approval, maybe, or recognition.
"You sure?" he asks.
"Terrified. But yes."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "Okay. But we start simple. Basic defense. How to break a hold, how to create distance, how to survive long enough for help to arrive."
"And if help doesn't arrive?"
"Then we move to advanced lessons." He gestures toward the living room. “Let’s push the furniture back. Give us space."
I slip off my heels finally, thank God, and help him shove the coffee table against the wall, stacking the chairs in the corner. The rug gets rolled up, exposing hardwood that's scarred and dented from what looks like years of exactly this kind of training.
Blake's done this before. Taught people how to survive. How to fight back. The thought makes something warm and dangerous bloom in my chest. This actually may work.
“Should I change my clothes?” I ask him. “I’m sure you have some sweats lying around here somewhere.”
“The Hollow Club isn’t going to snatch you while you’re wearing an overpriced athleisurewear suit. They’ll grab you when you’re completely off guard, like tonight, in heels and silk.”
“Point taken.”
"First rule," Blake continues, moving to the center of the room. "Don't be fair. There's no honor in survival. You scratch, bite, gouge. You go for the eyes, throat, and balls. You do whatever it takes to get away."
"Got it. Be vicious."
"Be effective." He positions himself in front of me, close but not touching. "Someone grabs you from behind. Arms around your waist, pinning yours. What do you do?"
"Scream?"
"Good instinct, but we're past that. They've already got you. Screaming might help, and it might not. Most people in today’s world don’t care about a scream, so you need to act."
"Okay." I think through the scenario. "Stomp on their foot?"
