We repeat the movement over and over. He grabs my wrist from different angles, with varying amounts of pressure, and each time I work to break free. Sometimes I fail, but more often I succeed, and each success makes me feel a little more capable. A little less helpless.
Sean is patient in a way I never expected. When I make mistakes, he doesn't snap at me or show frustration. He just corrects my form, demonstrates again, encourages me to try once more. This side of him—focused and instructive—is so different from the cold, distant man I've been living with that it's almost jarring.
It makes him seem more human. Less like the terrifying Wolf of Dublin and more like... a man.
A man who's standing very close to me, his hands on my body, his piercing green eyes intent on my face.
"Now we'll try a different scenario," he says after I've successfully broken his grip a dozen times. "If someone comes at you from behind?—"
Before I can process what's happening, he moves behind me and wraps one arm around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. My breath leaves me in a rush. I can feel the solid wall of his body against my back, the strength in the arm banded across my stomach, the heat of him seeping through my thin T-shirt.
"Don't panic," he says, his voice close to my ear. "Panicking makes you freeze, and that's what they want. Instead, you're going to drop your weight—make yourself heavy—and then drive your elbow back into their ribs. Like this."
He guides my arm through the motion, slow and controlled. His hand wraps around my elbow, directing it backward. I can barely concentrate on what he's teaching me. All I can think about is how it feels to be pressed against him like this, how I can feel every breath he takes, how his voice rumbles through his chest and into my back.
How, for just a moment… for the first time, being held by him doesn't feel frightening at all. It feels... safe. Protected.
And something else I don't have words for.
"Your turn," Sean says, releasing me and stepping back. I immediately feel cold without him behind me. "I'm going to grab you, and you're going to escape. Ready?"
I nod, trying to shake off the strange feelings coursing through me.
He moves behind me again and wraps his arm around my waist. This time, I can feel his muscles tense, feel the controlled power in how he's holding me. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that I understand I couldn't simply pull away.
I try to remember what he taught me. Drop my weight. I let myself sag in his grip, and I feel his arm adjust to hold me. Then I drive my elbow back toward where his ribs should be.
I don't make contact—he's pulled back enough that I can't reach him—but the motion is right.
"Better," he says. "But harder. If someone's attacking you, you can't hold back. You need to hurt them. Again."
We practice the movement over and over. Each time he grabs me, each time I'm pressed against the solid heat of his body, I feel that unfamiliar awareness growing stronger. I'm hyperconscious of every point of contact, every place where his skin touches mine or his breath stirs my hair.
And I think he feels it too. I can hear the slight roughness in his voice, see the tension in his jaw when I glance back at him. Once, when I successfully drive my elbow back, and he has to release me quickly, I catch something in his eyes—something dark and hungry that makes my stomach flip.
But he’s careful to keep his distance except when he's demonstrating a technique. Never lets his hands linger longer than necessary. He’s careful to keep his hips from pressing against me, from letting me feel if this is affecting him the way it is me.
It should make me feel better. Instead, it makes me ache in a way I don't fully understand.
After an hour of practicing various escapes and defensive moves, Sean steps back and rolls his shoulders. "That's enough for today. Tomorrow we'll work more on strikes. For now, let's go out to the range."
My legs are shaky as I follow him out of the gym and out to the backyard, where Sean drives us to the range at the far end of the estate in an old Range Rover. We're both slightly damp with sweat, and I'm intensely aware of the small space of the car, the way Sean takes up so much of it with his presence.
"You did well," he says as we drive, and the praise makes something glow warm in my chest. "You're stronger than you think."
I duck my head, not sure how to respond. No one has ever praised my physical abilities before. I've always been the weak one, the delicate one, the one who needed protecting.
But today, when Sean looked at me, it didn’t feel like he saw someone weak. He saw someone worth teaching. Someone capable.
The shooting range is smaller than I expected—just a few lanes, clearly meant for the security team to come out and practice when they have time. Sean unlocks a cabinet and pulls out two guns, along with safety equipment.
"This is a Glock 19," he says, showing me one of the weapons. "Nine millimeter. It’s a standard defensive weapon. We're going to start with the basics—how to hold it, how to aim, how to manage recoil."
He sets it down on the counter and picks up safety glasses and ear protection, handing me a set. My hands are trembling as I put them on.
"I don't know if I can do this," I admit. The gun looks deadly and foreign on the counter between us. "What if I'm terrible at it?"
"Then you'll practice until you're not terrible." Sean's voice is matter-of-fact. "Everyone starts somewhere, Maeve. Even me."
