Each time, his body locks up.
Each time, he analyzes the sensation, the duration, the recovery time.
And each time, I get closer.
Closer to his body.
Closer to his heat.
Closer to the line between tactical demonstration and something far more dangerous.
By the tenth strike, we're both breathing hard.
Sweat beads on my forehead.
My hands are shaking from the repeated impact.
And Cyprian is staring at me with an intensity that makes my entire body flush with heat.
"You need to see it in motion," I say. "The strikes are most effective when the target is moving. When their muscles are already engaged."
"Agreed."
He steps back, rolling his shoulders.
"Attack me," he says.
I blink.
"What?"
"Move. Strike. Treat this as live combat. I need to feel how the technique functions under real conditions."
"Cyprian, I'm not a fighter. I'm a massage therapist."
"You are my mate. You are brilliant. You are capable. And you are going to show me exactly how to dismantle Sentinel Dynamics' enforcers."
The confidence in his voice is staggering.
Like there's no question.
Like it's already decided.
I take a breath.
And then I move.
I dart forward, aiming for his left shoulder.
He shifts, blocking with his forearm.
I pivot, driving my elbow toward his right side.
He catches my arm, his sprawling, towering frame wrapping around my wrist with gentle, unyielding pressure.
"Faster," he says.
I twist out of his grip, dropping low, and slam my palm into the pressure point at the base of his wing.
