“That was game.” Lucian’s voice is almost casual, but the words land like a bomb at the table.
We all freeze and whip our heads toward him. His side of the table is empty.
“Wait—what?” I blink at him. “You can’t just—when did you—”
Theo slaps the table. “You didn’t call Uno!”
Lucian’s mouth curves, the faintest smirk ghosting across his face. “I did.”
“No, you didn’t,” Selene argues immediately.
“I did,” he says again, calm as ever. “It’s not my fault you were too busy bickering to listen.”
Morgan’s jaw drops. “You sneaky son of a—”
“I call rematch,” Theo declares, already shuffling his cards back into the deck.
Selene groans but starts gathering hers too. “Yeah, no way you’re getting away with that.”
Lucian leans back in his chair, his arms folding across his chest like a king who’s already conquered the night. His eyes flick to mine, and I bite my lips to keep my laugh from slipping out at how smug he looks.
“Hold up,” Lucian says, his voice cutting through the chatter. His arm drapes across the back of my chair, as his gaze flicks toward Morgan. “Before we dive into another round, I want to steal Morgan for something.”
Morgan arches a brow. “Stealme? Bold, considering you just cheated your way to a win.”
“I didn’t cheat.” His lips twitch like he knows he sounds exactly like a man who did. “But we do need your help.”
Theo theatrically facepalms as he lets out a loud tortured groan. “I forgot, I was supposed to text you earlier. Lucian wants your help with something but I got distracted.”
She leans back in her chair, watching curiously. “With what?”
Lucian shifts, his hand brushing mine under the table, grounding me in a way he probably doesn’t even realize. “I’m going to start working with Celeste on self-defense. But most of what I want to teach I can’t because I haven’t been cleared. You’re the only one I know of right now in Shadow Grove that I would trust enough to help her out with sparring.”
Morgan’s grin turns mischievous and maybe just a little predatory. “Oh, you mean you want me to teach your girlfriend to throw you around a little? Say less.”
Theo groans, already laughing. “This is going to be chaos.”
Selene chuckles under her breath. “I can’t wait to watch.”
And just like that, my pulse is hammering, part nerves, part excitement, and maybe just a touch of dread, because if Morgan’s smile is anything to go by, I’m about to regret agreeing to game night.
The cleared patch of floor feels like a stage: streetlight slanting through the blinds, dust motes drifting slow as applause. Lucian stands next to me while Morgan bounces across from us. I plant my feet and breathe, feeling the pulse under my ribs like a drum.
Lucian’s voice is low. “Keep your feet shoulder-width apart, don’t forget to bend your knees and always keep your chin down.” He moves my hands, nudges my weight forward until balance stops being an idea and becomes a place I can live in.
Morgan slides in close, voice bright. “Ready to be humbled, tall girl?”
“Try me,” I say, and my mouth is steadier than my pulse.
“Feet shoulder-width. Weight forward. Eyes up,” Lucian says. He keeps his hand on my hip while Morgan pads aroundbehind me and slips her arms around me for the first hold. Lucian moves to stand beside me as he narrates every small thing as if he’s reading the motion aloud so my body can follow: “Tuck your chin. Squeeze your elbows to your ribs. Anchor your feet.”
Morgan tightens the mock bear-hug with measured pressure. I feel the shape of her arms, and the way my breath shortens. Lucian’s fingers move to my forearms and guide my hands into the right place. He talks me through each micro-step—why my chin tucks, why my elbows clamp, where to plant my foot, everything I need to know until the logic of it replaces the panic. “Peel her thumb back first,” he says, and his fingertip corrects my grip. “Rotate toward the weak point; step to the side”
I pull back the thumb I can reach, as Lucian adjusts my angle. When I forget and yank, he stops me with a single word and a touch: “Keep your movements deliberate.” He keeps the coaching continuous and specific—“Push with the forearm, not the shoulder; breathe out on the break”—and his hands are there to guide the motion until the grip loosens. Morgan varies the hold—higher, lower, firmer—but never enough to hurt. Her resistance feels real, and Lucian never lets me get lost in the memory of my attack.
We run the sequence again, slower this time. Lucian’s narration never stops: he names the tiny failures I can’t feel yet and places his hand where I need it until my body remembers. He reminds me that the goal is to create space, not to dramatize an escape; the shove I practice is meant to separate, not to throw. When we pause, he hands me a water bottle and meets my eyes. “We can repeat it slowly until it’s automatic,” he says, and I feel the motion settling into my muscles like a sentence I’ve read aloud enough times to stop thinking about the words.
After a while, my lungs burn pleasantly and sweat prickles at my collar. There’s a bruise of satisfaction under my sternum, thekind that comes from doing something hard and finding you can do it. Morgan claps me on the shoulder, mock-sincere. “Don’t get cocky. That’s how you mess up.”
