Gabriel was out there, wearing a stranger's face and thinking his rabbit would stay in her cage.
He was wrong.
The real hunt would begin soon. But tonight, held by someone who saw all my fractures and chose to stay, I let myself rest in the space between who I'd been made to be and who I was becoming.
It felt like freedom. It felt like home.
It felt like the first real choice I'd ever made.
12
Lessons
Nathan's makeshift gym occupied the second bedroom of his apartment, a space transformed into something between a dojo and a tactical training ground. Mats covered the floor, a heavy bag hung in one corner, and various equipment lined the walls—pull-up bars, resistance bands, things that spoke of discipline I was still learning to separate from obedience.
"Your stance is too rigid," he said, circling me like I was prey. "You're thinking too much about form, not enough about adapting."
"Gabriel valued precision." The name still tasted bitter, but I was practicing saying it without flinching. Progress, Nathan called it. I called it exposure therapy.
"Gabriel's not here." Nathan feinted left, then swept my legs when I failed to adjust. I hit the mat hard, breath punching out of my lungs. "Real fights are chaos. You have to flow with them."
I rolled to my feet, ignoring the ache in my hip. "Easy for you to say. You weren't programmed to freeze without explicit instructions."
"Then let's deprogram you." He beckoned me forward. "Again."
We'd been at this for two hours. My muscles screamed, sweat soaked through my tank top, and frustration built like pressure in a cracked pipe. Every time I thought I had the technique down, he'd change tactics, forcing me to think instead of just react according to training.
"Stop." I held up a hand. "This isn't working."
"Because you're still waiting for permission to act." He stepped closer, just inside my guard. "You're strong, fast, trained. But you second-guess every instinct."
"Instincts got beaten out of me." I wiped sweat from my eyes. "All I have left are protocols."
"Bullshit." The profanity made me blink. Nathan rarely swore during training, maintaining professional distance that I both appreciated and resented. "You have instincts. I've seen them when you're not thinking. When you saved those women. When you're in bed with—"
"That's different."
"Is it?" He moved closer still, close enough that I could smell his soap beneath the sweat. "Show me what you do when you're not thinking. When it's just about want."
"Nathan..."
"Show me," he repeated, voice dropping to that register that made heat pool in my belly.
Fine. He wanted instinct? I'd give him instinct.
I moved without telegraph, using his proximity against him. Hip throw combined with a leg sweep I'd learned from watching not training. He hit the mat, but I followed him down,knees planted on either side of his hips, hands pinning his wrists.
"Like that?" I asked, breathless for reasons that had nothing to do with exertion.
His eyes darkened. "Exactly like that."
The position was tactical, dominant, but my body had other ideas. Two hours of close-contact training, his hands on me to correct form, his body against mine to demonstrate holds—I was wound tight as piano wire. And from the growing hardness beneath me, he wasn't unaffected either.
"This is how you beat me," I said, rocking slightly against him. "Get me out of my head. Make me want something more than I fear consequences."
"Is it working?" His voice came out rough.
"You tell me." I released his wrists to pull off my tank top, sports bra following. Cool air hit overheated skin, making my nipples tighten. "Still thinking too much?"
