The following week, Lucas was careful with me, but I took out all my grief on him by using his body as a punching bag. I threw myself into trying to pin him down.
I failed.
We didn’t discuss the note, or touch on the embrace we’d shared, the one I’d relived in my head dozens of times.
Far too intimate.
I’d never held anyone like that, as if he was the only thing that mattered. Like letting go might hurt me.
We ignored it all, and sweat-drenched in our practice room, I stood across from him, panting. “I’m never going to be better than you.”
“Nope.” He popped theP,which only made me scowl.
“Then what’s the fucking point, Lucas?”
His mouth did that thing, that lopsided almost-smile wanting to weave itself into my favor. “Staying alive is the point.”
I flung an arm at him. “Why can’t you teach me to fight like you?”
“You’ll never be able to do it, Sophia. You don’t think like I do.”
Was that a jab at my intelligence? I gripped my hips and glared.
Something warm tinged his eyes as he took in my anger, a bare hint of indulgence. “Is that what you want from life? To be good at seeing the weaknesses in people so you can kill them?”
Oh, my glare cooled.
“To face a man with nothing but a knife, to see his poor grip, his favored right leg, the little tremor in his shoulder telling you he’s tired, and instantly know the best way to end his life? To be so many steps ahead of him that he may as well already be dead?”
“I—”
“—willneverthink that way. You think like someone who still has a soul they don’t want damaged. It’s why—” His mouth snapped shut, and a slow flush of color spread up his neck into his cheeks.
Curiosity stabbed at me. “Why…?”
“Why…I teach you defensive strategies.”
Oh, you fucking liar.That wasn’t at all what he was going to say.
“You aren’t a killer,” he continued. “Your goal isn’t to be better than me. Your only goal is to be better than you were.”
I groaned. “Fine. Let’s go again.”
My endurance had improved since I’d started exercising, but I couldn’t keep up with him. I swept the stray hairs from my face and waited for him to attack. He grabbed a wrist with one hand and my throat with the other. I yanked at his grip to keep from choking.
Once free, I reached for the pretend knife in my pocket, this time a comb. He smacked my hand away.
Together, we tripped, and my back hit the wall. He squeezed off my air supply.
I panicked, both hands scrabbling to get his fingers off my throat. He loomed over me, and I raised my eyes, pleading for mercy. Our gazes clashed.
He faltered.
His long fingers spasmed, releasing me, and I sucked in air. “Why’d you stop?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.
Instead of answering, he took hold of my chin to lift my face, turning from one side to the other while he inspected my neck. “I don’t think it will bruise.”
I swallowed. He’d never been worried about bruises before.
