"Training is done." He stopped in front of her, sweat cooling on his skin.
"I noticed." She waved at the now-empty hall, not taking her eyes off his shoulders. Off his body. "What was that first part? The… slow sequence. Looked like yoga until it suddenly didn't."
"The Diraanesh."
"Diraanesh," she repeated, like she was tasting the word. Then she paused. "Is that... I mean, do you?—"
She looked away, then back. "Are there self-defense classes? On the station? For women?"
The question caught him off guard. She wanted to learn to fight?
"There are classes." He reached for a towel, attention still fixed on her. "But no one will teach you the Diraanesh."
"Oh." Nodding, she looked down at her hands, and her small expression made him feel a brute. "Right. Okay."
"No one will teach you, because I will."
Her head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise.
He let the offer sit. The prospect was appealing on multiple levels... not least the idea of putting his hands on her body to adjust her stance, standing close enough to feel her warmth while she learned the ancient techniques. Teaching her something that mattered to him.
"You?" Her voice came out slightly strangled. "Personally?"
"If you accept instruction, it will be from me." He didn't want anyone else's hands on her, even for instruction.
"No, I—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I just didn't think... I mean, you're a War-Commander. Isn't this like… below your pay grade? Surely you have other things that are more important."
He held her gaze. "You are a priority."
The flush on her cheeks deepened. Her mouth opened, closed. Opened again.
"Fine." She exhaled through her nose, like conceding to gravity. "But I'm not doing this as a pet project. I want real instruction."
He extended his hand to help her up from the bench. After a moment of hesitation, she took it. Her palm was warm against his. Small. Her fingers barely wrapped around his hand at all.
Pulling her to her feet, he held on a moment too long. She stood close enough that he could count her freckles. Close enough to see the awareness in her eyes, and the hitch in her breathing.
Then she stepped back, pulled her hand free.
"So." Her voice wasn't quite steady. "When?"
"No." She crossed her arms. "Give me a time. Otherwise, I'll talk myself out of it."
He tilted his head. "After your next visit to medical. Then we begin."
8
Harper had read the same paragraph four times and still couldn't tell you what the hell they grew in the agricultural zones on the station.
Not that it mattered. She wasn't actually reading.
No, she was planning her escape.
The problem was Kirr, sat at his desk in the corner of the room across from her. He hadn't moved in forty minutes. He hadn't blinked. Hadn't shifted. But she knew damn well the moment she moved, he’d notice her.
His back was a wall of muscle under his loose black shirt, dwarfing the chair. Every so often, his hand flicked through the air, slicing through whatever reports from his ship he was reading like they owed him money.
He was busy. Surely, too busy to notice one small human woman slipping out the door.
