"Your head." Her voice is strained. "And your feet."
"Show me."
She throws her head back, nearly connecting with my chin, and simultaneously stomps down toward my instep. I dodge both, but the movements are correct.
"Good instincts. Again."
We drill until she's breathing hard and sweat darkens her hairline. Each repetition requires me to put my hands on her, to press my body against hers, to feel every curve and plane through the thin fabric of my shirt on her body.
It's torture. The best kind.
"Enough." I step back, running a hand over my beard to ground myself. "You need rest. We'll do another session tomorrow."
She bends over again, catching her breath. When she looks up at me, her eyes hold a new respect.
"You're a good teacher."
"I'm a competent instructor. There's a difference."
"No." She straightens, pushing sweat-dampened hair from her face. "You're good. You explain things clearly, you adjust to my learning style, and you don't treat me like I'm fragile even though I know you think I am."
"I don't think you're fragile."
"You called me a liability."
"Being untrained isn't the same as being fragile." I hold her gaze. "Fragile people break under pressure. You killed a man with a lamp because you refused to be a victim. That's not fragile. That's a survivor."
That seems to shake something in her. For a moment, she looks almost vulnerable.
"Thank you for doing this." Quiet, stripped of her usual armor. "For taking this assignment. For training me. I know this isn't what you wanted."
"What I want isn't relevant. Keeping you alive is the mission."
"Right. The Mission.”
I study her in my shirt. Think of the feel of her body against mine during training. The sound of her voice when she asked if I was okay last night.
"That's all it can be."
She nods slowly. But her eyes say she doesn't believe me.
I'm not sure I believe me either.
"I'm going to take a shower." She moves toward the hallway, pausing at the door to her room. "What's the plan for this afternoon?"
"Rest. Recovery. Tonight I'll brief you on emergency protocols and we'll do a trial run of the panic room procedures."
"Fun times." The dry humor is back, her walls rebuilding. "Do you ever do anything that isn't tactical preparation?"
"No."
"Shocking." She disappears into her room, and I hear the bathroom door close a moment later. The shower starts running.
Don't think about her in the shower.
I grab my coat and head outside, desperately needing the cold air.
The afternoon passesin perimeter checks and equipment maintenance. Keeping busy. Staying active. Doing anything toavoid being in the cabin with her. The distance is necessary. Every minute I spend with Vivian Russo makes it harder to remember why professional boundaries exist.
