Growing up, I was always Siobhan's little sister. The quieter one, the less talented one, the one who faded into the background while my older sister shone. Siobhan was beautiful and confident and accomplished. She got straight A's, had dozens of friends—if only because they wanted the social credit that came with being associated with her—and every man she encountered—except the one she married—looked at her like she hung the moon. She was the shining star of our family, the one who was going to bring us into the upper echelons of mafia society.
I was smart, too. But my grades didn’t count for as much. I didn’t make friends easily; I was too shy. And men have never wanted me, not when they could vie for Siobhan’s hand. It’s only been since my family’s deaths that I’ve suddenly become desirable, now that the money and prestige hinge on marriage to me.
Our father saw Siobhan and Desmond as the future of the family. Desmond adored Siobhan and would have done anythingto help see her succeed. No one has ever looked at me and seen potential, or capability.
Until now.
"I'm clumsy," I hear myself say. "I'm not—I've never been good at anything like that."
"You've never tried." Sean extends his hand to me. "Come on. We'll start now."
I hesitate, staring at his outstretched hand. Part of me wants to refuse, to curl back into the safety of my book and the window seat. But another part—a part I'm only just beginning to recognize—wants to prove him right, to be capable of something.
And if there’s another, even smaller part that wants to see him look at me with approval instead of cold distance or outright anger… I ignore that. I shouldn’t crave anything from this man, given how he’s treated me, and yet… he’s my husband.
I take his hand.
His palm is warm and calloused against mine, and the contact sends a jolt through me that I don't entirely understand. He pulls me to my feet easily, as if it’s nothing at all compared to how strong he is. For a moment we're standing close, too close, and I can smell him—that clean, masculine scent that makes my breath catch.
Then he releases my hand and steps back, and I can breathe again.
"We'll start in the gym," he says, already moving toward the hallway. "There's a shooting range further out on the estate, but we'll save that for later." He glances at me. “Get changed into something you can move in and meet me out here in ten minutes.”
Part of me wants to argue, but I don’t. If nothing else, the fact that he seems to think I’m capable of this makes me want to try—makes me curious what it is that he sees that might mean that’spossible. I throw on a pair of leggings, a sports bra, and a loose t-shirt, and follow him barefoot out into the hallway.
I follow him to the lower floor of the mansion, to a room in the back that I’ve rarely been inside. Desmond used it often for lifting weights, and Siobhan would use the treadmill for running on rainy days, but I avoided it, stretching in my room or walking around outside. It's set up as a home gym, with weights and a treadmill and various pieces of equipment I don't recognize. There are mats covering most of the floor, and it smells like cleaning spray and rubber. I’m not a fan.
Sean moves to the center of the mats and turns to face me. "First rule: if someone attacks you, your goal isn't to win a fight. It's to create an opportunity to escape. Understand?"
I nod, wrapping my arms around myself.This is why I have bodyguards, I want to argue… but I remember what happened out on the trail. What if I hadn’t fallen off of Atlas? What if he’d bolted and I’d fallen further out, away from anyone who could have helped me? What if Ihadbeen alone in the woods with people who wanted to kill me?
"Most attackers will try to grab you," he continues. "So we'll start with basic escapes from common holds. Come here."
My feet feel rooted to the spot. I'm suddenly very aware that this means he's going to touch me. That we're going to be close, that his hands are going to be on my body.
"Maeve." His voice is softer now. "I'm not going to hurt you. You need to trust me."
Trust him.The man who cut his own arm open on our wedding night rather than consummate our marriage. The man who's barely spoken to me in days, grabbed my wrist and told me he wanted me too much, in a voice that made me ache in places I didn't know could ache.
But I move toward him anyway, because part of me wants this—wants to be close to him, wants to understand him, wantsto be something other than the frightened girl who trembled on her wedding night.
When I'm standing in front of him, Sean reaches out and gently takes my wrist… nothing like the harsh way he touched me yesterday. My pulse jumps at the contact. It’s as if he’s being cautious so as not to scare me off.
"If someone grabs your wrist like this," he says, his voice taking on an instructional tone, "your instinct will be to pull away. But that doesn't work—they're stronger than you. Instead, you're going to rotate your wrist toward their thumb. That's the weakest part of their grip."
He demonstrates slowly, guiding my movement. His hands are warm and sure, and I can feel the controlled strength in them. These are hands that have killed people, I think distantly. But right now they're being careful with me. Gentle.
"Now you try," he says, releasing me and gripping my wrist again. "Break free."
I try to mimic what he showed me, but I do it wrong, twisting in the wrong direction. His grip doesn't budge.
"Other way," he says patiently. "Toward the thumb. Here?—"
He takes my other hand and guides it to where his thumb is wrapped around my wrist. "Feel that? That's where the weakness is. Rotate toward it."
I try again, and this time my wrist slips free. A small victory, but it makes something warm bloom in my chest.
"Good," Sean says, and the approval in his voice makes me want to do it again. "Again. Faster this time."
