Page 63 of Trust

I shift my weight forward slightly, letting my charm loose. “Knives.”

That gets her. Her face comes alive with interest. “I get to train with knives?”

“Stix thought you should master the art before using the one you hid under your mattress.”

Color hits her cheeks fast. She gapes at him. “You knew?”

He tips his chin, an obvious yes.

“Why’d you let me keep it?”

“Figured it gave you a sense of security, and if I didn’t give you a reason, you wouldn’t use it.”

She absorbs that for a moment, posture straightening, eyes thoughtful, as if she’s just realizing he can still watch her. Then she surprises us with the smallest smile and an okay.

Stix gets up and rinses his dishes in the sink. On his way out, he bends down so only I can hear, while my eyes are locked on Sara’s. “If she walks away with blood on her hands, it’d better be yours.” He grabs his jacket and steps out the back door into the rain.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I glance over at Sara, who’s now lounging in my hoodie, looking out the window with an expression I can’t quite read yet.

This day just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

KNIVES

Sara

The space pulls tighter around me the moment Chris leaves the house.

Cash shifts beside me, but I keep my focus elsewhere. A sudden awareness crawls under my skin, leaving me oddly restless. Maybe it’s the way his presence weighs on me now that it’s just us.

I wrap my arms around myself.

This might’ve been a mistake.

Cash turns, his eyes landing on mine, reading the unease there. “Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

I nod too quickly.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Before we start, I want you to know this.”

I lift my head.

“We’re not doing anything today you don’t want to do. If training hits a breaking point or goes too far, I need you to speak up. Right then. Don’t tough it out. Tell me. No questions asked, we stop.”

His tone isn’t teasing. It’s not flirty or condescending or even protective. It’s sincere. He’s laying ground rules for a dangerous game and trusting me to play my part.

I hadn’t realized how much tension I was carrying in my spine until now. My arms loosen, shoulders drop.

“Okay,” I say more or less confidently.

He cracks a crooked smile. “Good. Then let’s throw knives at stuff.”

The way he handled that moment makes me look forward to what the day has in store for me. Since the weather’s horrible, we turn the living room into a makeshift training arena. Cash finds a big chunk of firewood from the porch, then drags over a few thick blankets and cushions from the couch to protect the floor. We push the coffee table against the wall and stack anything breakable safely out of the way.

He asks me to show him what I’ve already learned from Chris. I go through a series of stances and a few defensive movements. He watches closely, correcting my posture here and there, never once laying a finger on me. His whole demeanor changes during training. The usual cocky grin is gone, replaced by a seriousness I wouldn’t have expected. He doesn’t flirt or joke. His professionalism strips the session of its absurdity.

A strange kind of trust forms between us. He makes sure I’m comfortable, lets me feel safe. It shouldn’t work, but it does. Am I really that easy?

He gets the knives. Each one is laid out with reverent precision, like a priest arranging sacred vessels. Some are short and curved, others long and lean. Different designs, different intentions, all meant to erase a person. Violence as art. He’s an artist. His medium is ending lives, and I’ve agreed to let him teach me the first brushstrokes.