“Not allowed,” she repeats. “By who?”
“By me,” I say. “By Kael. By Gallagher. Pick one. Doesn’t matter. The rule’s the same.”
A shadow flickers through her expression—something like hurt, something like relief, both too fast to sort.
“So this is, what, professional courtesy?” she asks. “You’re celibate until the monster’s in cuffs?”
“This is me not becoming one more man who uses your fear to get close to you,” I say, sharper than I intend. “You deserve better than that.”
Whatever she expected, it wasn’t that.
Her eyes go wide, shiny.
“Oh,” she says again. Soft this time.
Silence stretches.
“Again?” I ask finally, because if we stand here in this for one second longer, I’m going to do something I can’t take back.
“You want to do that again?” she says, voice high.
“Themove,” I clarify. “Without the falling. You need it in your muscles, not just your head.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “Right. Moves. Yes. That’s what we’re doing.”
We run it twice more. Clinical. Cold. At least, I try to make it that way. There’s no way to make being chest-to-chest with her feel neutral, but we keep our focus on angles, leverage, escapes.
Barely.
The barn door creaks.
“Hey!” Brodie’s voice calls. “You two decent, or am I about to regret walking in here?”
Tallulah nearly trips just turning her head.
“We’re fine,” she yelps. “We’re training.”
Brodie appears, taking in the scene with cop eyes—sweat, flushed faces, hay in Tallulah’s hair, the way I’m standing—too still, too careful.
“Uh-huh,” he says. “Looks intense.”
“Brady’s ready in ten,” he adds. “State wants your brain, Gentry. And your face, Kelly.”
Twig groans. “State. My favorite.”
He jerks his chin at me. “Walk her back?”
“I’m not letting her out of my sight,” I say.
Twig rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “Very comforting, thanks.”
She steps off the mat.
Her socked foot slips on the edge.
I catch her without thinking—hands snapping to her waist, hauling her back against me before she can hit the floor.
Her fingers clamp around my forearms.
