Living with Zach Steele was a terrible idea.
In the living room, the sound of sharpening continued—rhythmic, methodical, perfectly controlled.
A last thought drifted through her mind as sleep claimed her:
She was already in more trouble than any hurricane could cause.
Chapter 16
Reaction Gap
Sand wasthe worst place to fight, which made it the best place to train.
Zach stood twenty feet from the waterline, boots planted in the shifting ground, and watched Emma approach. The early morning sun deepened the dark shine of her hair. She wore fitted athletic gear—practical—and moved with the natural confidence of someone who’d never had to run for her life.
Yet.
He had intended to start training her days ago, but their work schedules had interfered. No more.
“Morning,” she called. Bright. Friendly.
He nodded once.
She stopped a few feet away, scanning the empty beach. “No equipment?”
“Don’t need it.”
Her eyebrow lifted. Question forming.
He cut it off. “Sand’s unstable. No walls. No fixed footing. Everything you do here costs more energy.” He toed the sand, drawing a circle with his boot. “If you can move here, you can move anywhere.”
Emma glanced down at the line, then back up at him. “That’s reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
A flicker of something crossed her face—amusement, maybe—but it faded quickly.
“Show me what you know,” Zach said.
“What I—from the gym class?”
“Whatever you’ve learned. Self-defense. Martial arts.” He gestured vaguely. “Show me.”
She hesitated, then dropped into a stance he recognized. Krav Maga. Civilian instruction. Weekend certification, maybe a few months of consistency. She demonstrated a wrist release, a knee strike, an elbow to an imaginary attacker’s face, a basic choke escape.
Efficient movements. Clean.
Completely useless.
Everything she did assumed cooperation. Assumed the attacker followed predictable patterns. Grabbed where expected. Reacted how he was supposed to. Stepped back when she struck.
Assumed the attacker wasn’t trained.
That was a problem.
“Again,” he said. “The wrist escape.”
Emma extended her arm. He gripped it—not hard, but firm—the way someone would grab her in a parking lot. An office. A stairwell with no witnesses. She executed the technique perfectly. Twist, step, pull.
