Page 64 of Trust

“This one’s for close quarters,” he says, tapping a stubby, wide-bladed one. “Fast. Dirty. No finesse.”

I swallow hard. My brain screams danger, but I don’t move.

“This one’s for slashing.” He picks up a longer, elegant blade, spinning it easily in his palm. “Good reach. Bad if it gets stuck.”

Stuck. Like in a body?

My blood runs cold.

“And this one,” he says, grabbing a slim, balanced dagger and turning to face the wooden target, “is perfect for throwing.”

He steps back, breathes in, then moves.

The knife flies from his grip in a flash and lands in the wood with a solid thunk that makes me flinch. The sound triggers something in me. He hit his mark perfectly. Instead of being scared or even disgusted, I’m just... mesmerized. I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “That was insane.”

He gives me a blade and measures the range between me and the wood, between me and him.

Starting slow, he shows me how to hold the knife properly, balance it between my fingers, handle it without cutting myself. His knuckles graze my shoulder blade as he nudges it into place, barely a touch, but enough to rewire my posture and my pulse.

The way he maneuvers around me excites me, as if I’m gravity and he’s in orbit, keeping just the right distance to avoid being pulled in.

Throwing is harder than you’d think. I miss a lot. The knife drops into the cushions more times than I can count. Cash is patient in a way I didn’t anticipate. One knife ends up in the wall, far off from where it should be, and sticks there. I brace for him to laugh, but he doesn’t.

“Good. That was close. Adjust your wrist.” He steps behind me and gently places his fingers over mine, guiding the motion. “Try again.”

Finally, I hit the mark. It’s not perfect, but the blade stays put. A fierce joy explodes in my chest. Pride. It’s been absent for so long it takes me a second to recognize it. It’s reflected in his eyes too. "You’ll get dangerous real fast,” he says.

Hours blur past as we keep going. When I go back home, I won’t be the same girl who left.

◆◆◆

We take a break on the couch. Cash offers me a bottle of water, his fingers grazing mine briefly, maybe accidentally.

“You good?” he asks, sinking down beside me, so close his heat sears against my skin.

I nod, taking a big sip. “Yeah, I think so.”

He rests his arms on his knees, rotating the bottle, then glances at me. “How does it feel? All of this.”

I follow his gaze around the cabin. The rearranged furniture, a knife sticking out of the wooden target, the stairs leading to the spa-like bathroom. None of it belongs to the life I came from.

“I don’t know,” I say, fully aware he’s not only asking about the training. “Surreal. Not as bad as I thought, but there’s a strange sense that everything’s been set up, or preplanned, and I don’t get a say in it.”

Cash huffs but doesn’t say anything.

“But also...” I trail off, watching the raindrops slide down the windowpane. “I think this whole ‘boot camp in the woods’ thing... somehow, it’s working. The anger isn’t constant anymore. I’m not as frustrated as I used to be.”

He glances sideways at me, listening without pushing.

“I can’t forgive him,” I add. “My father, I mean. But I can picture going back, enduring his presence until I’ve finished school. Then getting away from him and starting a life of my own. A life that’s mine.”

He answers with a small nod, opens his mouth as if to say more, then stops himself. He averts his eyes before standing abruptly and offering his hand.

His expression has shifted to instructor mode again.

“Let’s roll,” he says.

I let him pull me up, and we’re back to the knives.