"That... that no one can be trusted?"
"Better. But you’re still missing the point." His thumb pressed against her lower lip. "You learned that power recognizes power. Malachar didn't come here for border disputes. He came because he heard I'd claimed something interesting. Something that made me..." He paused, searching for words. "Distracted."
"I'm not that interesting."
"No?" He leaned closer, and her breath caught. "You survived my bone garden. Escaped my oubliette. Bloomed golden flowers. Made me break protocol to retrieve you early. Caught the attention of my greatest rival. Tell me again how uninteresting you are."
She had no answer for that.
"Which brings us to today's lesson." He straightened, pulling her up with him. "If you're going to draw attention, you need to handle it better."
"Handle it how?"
"First, understanding weak points." He moved behind her, one arm sliding around her waist in demonstration. "When Malachar pinned you, where was his weight?"
"I—everywhere. He was everywhere."
"No. He was here." His arm tightened, showing the hold. "And here." His other hand came to her throat, gentle but instructive. "Two points of control. Which means..."
"What?"
"Everything else was free." He adjusted his grip. "Show me how you tried to escape."
She attempted to pull away, but his hold remained firm.
"Predictable. You pulled back, giving him more leverage." He tsked. "Instead..."
He guided her movements, showing how dropping her weight, twisting just so, could break even his grip. They spent the next hour on holds and escapes, and she tried not to think about how his hands felt on her skin.
"Better," he finally said when she managed to slip from his grasp. "But you're still over thinking it."
"How do I not think?"
"By feeling." He caught her wrist, pulled her against him. "Your body knows what to do. That warmth in your chest? It recognizes danger. Recognizes safety. Trust it."
"Trust the mysterious warmth that shouldn't exist?"
"Trust your instincts." His hand pressed over where the warmth pulsed. "When I touch you here, what does it tell you?"
The warmth flared, reaching for his touch like a flower to sun. Safe, it seemed to say. Home.
"I—it—"
"The truth," he commanded softly.
"It says you're safe." The admission burned. "Which makes no sense because you're the most dangerous thing here."
"Am I?" His hand pressed harder, and the warmth sang. "To others, yes. But to you? When have I hurt you without purpose? Without lesson?"
She wanted to list his cruelties, but found she couldn't. Everything had been calculated. Instructive. Even his punishments taught survival.
"That's different from safe."
"Is it?" He turned her in his arms, keeping her close. "Tell me—last night, when Malachar had you, what did you want?"
"To escape."
"And?"
