He continues, voice like gravel. “If you can’t defend yourself, you won’t survive. I won’t always be there to drag you out of harm’s way, and neither will your brothers or guards.”
I bristle at that, even as my chest pinches at the reminder of my panic attack. “So, what? You’re going to play personal trainer?”
He nods once, not catching what I’m throwing. Or he just chooses to ignore it. “Starting now.”
I glance at the mirrors, then back at him, smirking. “Do I get a whistle and some motivational shouting? Maybe a sticker chart when I behave?”
Nicolo’s lips twitch, barely, but the flicker of irritation—or maybe amusement—is there. He steps closer, and suddenly the air feels heavier.
“You’ll get your phone back.”
That makes my heart jolt. “When?”
“When I see progress.” His gaze drops to my leggings, then back to my face. “Until then, you belong here. On this mat. With me.”
“That’s subjective to what you think progress is,” I point out.
His head tilts to the side as if he’s assessing me. “Exactly.” Nicolo steps onto the mat and crooks two fingers at me. “Here.”
I arch a brow. “What, no warmup? No inspirational speech?”
“Move, Mara.” His voice is low, sharp, and it makes my pulse skip.
I sigh dramatically and shuffle onto the mat, standing a few feet away from him with my arms crossed. “Okay. What now?”
“Stance.” He motions with his chin. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands up.”
I mimic what I’ve seen in movies, my arms limp, my balance off. I know I look ridiculous, and I do it on purpose.
His jaw tightens. In two strides, he’s in front of me, and before I can blink, his hands close over my wrists. His touch is firm, almost too warm, as he yanks my arms higher, angling my elbows.
“You’ll break your face if you try to block like that.”
I glance up at him through my lashes. “So protective.”
His gaze darkens, but he ignores me, stepping closer until his chest nearly brushes mine. He kicks at my ankle with the side of his shoe, forcing my legs further apart.
“Lower your center of gravity. You’re not a porcelain doll.”
“Wow,” I murmur, smirking. “You actually notice I’m not breakable. Progress.”
His fingers flex against my wrist, a warning squeeze. “Don’t mistake correction for softness. If you can’t take this seriously, I’ll make you.”
The threat in his tone sends a shiver straight down my spine. I want to scoff and roll my eyes, but with him this close, towering over me, my throat dries. His scent—smoke and something darker—wraps around me.
“Good,” he mutters, his eyes locked on mine like he’s daring me to look away. “Now hold it.”
My arms ache within seconds, but pride keeps me frozen in the position he left me in. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me buckle.
When I finally drop my hands with a groan, his mouth curves—not quite a smile, more like victory carved into stone. “Pathetic.”
I bristle, straightening up. “I’ll get better.”
“You will.” Nicolo takes a step back, his eyes narrowing. “Or you don’t get your phone.” He circles me like a predator assessing prey. “Hands up.”
I groan but obey, lifting my arms into the stance he forced me into earlier. My shoulders ache already.
He steps closer, eyes scanning me from head to toe, clinical and cold. “You’re sloppy.”
