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She shakes her head in disbelief. "I was learning to braid friendship bracelets at six, right alongside my first elementary spells and historical lore."
"And look at you now. Sweeping the legs of trained shifters." I push myself up, rolling my shoulder where it connected with the hardwood. "That move—the low sweep. Where'd you pick it up?"
"A krav maga instructor in Wicker Park who owed me a favor after I banished a poltergeist from his studio." She takes a long drink of water, and I force my attention to the fireplace. "He said I had good instincts and terrible follow-through."
"He made a fair point about the follow-through. You secured the pin and held your advantage perfectly steady."
Her eyes flash. "I got distracted."
"By what?"
The inquiry ignites a sharp tension in the air. She holds my stare for three full seconds before turning away, keeping her thoughts to herself.
"We should do this again tomorrow," she says instead, keeping her tone carefully neutral.
"Clearly," I match her tone, though a sharp fire behind my ribs betrays how hard I'm striving for professionalism.
The possessive urge thrives, and its grip is a rigid snare around my ribs. Every moment with her intensifies this drive—this consuming need to protect her and hold her so securely that she remains safe.
This is the very brand of attachment that gets people killed.
Later, after she's fallen asleep on the couch with her research spread across her lap, I find a wool blanket from the hall closet—one that smells faintly of cedar and pack—and drape it over her shoulders. She murmurs something unintelligible and burrows into the fabric, her slumber undisturbed.
I take the chair by the window and position myself between her and every possible entry point, keeping watch while the fire burns down to embers and the forest outside holds its breath around us.
13
SERENITY
Golden light streams through dusty windows as morning arrives, accompanied by the scent of coffee brewing in the kitchen. I wake on the couch wrapped in a heavy wool blanket that feels thick with decades of use. Darius stands at the stove, fully dressed despite the early hour.
"Sleep well?" He pours coffee into two mismatched mugs, his attention held by the steam rising from the ceramic.
"Like the dead." I stretch, working out the kinks from sleeping on furniture. "How long have you been awake?"
"Few hours." He hands me a steaming mug. "I finished the perimeter check and supply inventory to satisfy my usual paranoia."
"Paranoid keeps us breathing," I take a grateful sip. The coffee tastes rich and strong, nothing like the bitter sludge I usually brew in my apartment. "Ready for round two of 'teach Serenity not to die horribly'?"
His mouth quirks. "Your enthusiasm is terrifying."
We spend the morning drilling defensive combinations until my muscles ache and sweat soaks through my shirt. Darius proves to be a consistently patient teacher, maintaining an unshakeable hand even while holding firm opinions about my life choices. He flawlessly adjusts my stance, but his gaze as I execute the move burns hot enough to melt any professional boundary.
"Better." He steps back after I successfully counter his mock attack for the third time in a row. "You're adapting faster than most recruits."
"Recruits?" I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "Is that what I am?"
"You're something." That simple statement bears a heavy truth, one we both tacitly agree to leave undisturbed.
We break for lunch and sit on the porch steps while sharing sandwiches made from supplies he packed. The forest extends endlessly in all directions, peaceful and isolated. Safety finally feels within reach, a stark departure from the last weeks.
"Can I ask you something? What's with some people calling you Morvane? Is it like some macho secret agent bodyguard thing you insisted on?"
He pauses mid-bite. "What makes you think that?"
"The sheer intensity of it. Plus, insisting on 'Morvane' feels like a calculated move to project a dangerous and mysterious persona on the job."
"Maybe I’m dangerous and mysterious."
