4. STORM

This time when I wake up, I know where I am. The lace curtains aren’t doing anything to keep the sunrise out of my eyes, and I can smell the smoky remains of the fire that burned itself out over the course of the night.

I take a long, hot shower in the en suite’s clawfoot tub, using the shampoo and conditioner that was in the bag Nick gave me. He thought of everything, including a razor and a blow dryer. The only thing he didn’t get was make-up, which I never use anyway.

At least, I never wore it until Arkady forced me to.

A stab of panic runs through my belly at the thought, but I manage to breathe it away. I remind myself that I’m safe now. I’m with Nick.

My hair looks infinitely better than it did last night, tangled as it was by my time in the ocean and then the old four-poster bed. Once it’s dry, I throw on some underwear – it occurs to me that it’s kind of amazing how Nick managed to guess my size – along with a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt from the bag. I won’t be going to any Broadway openings in it, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Boy, if that’s not the story of my life.

It’s a lot easier to navigate the house in the full light of day, instead of the bruised sunset after a storm. Samson and Delilah appear at my side like silent Secret Service agents as I leave my room. I think they may have slept in my room last night, but I can’t be sure; as far as I can tell, I didn’t even roll over after my head hit the pillow.

The first stop I have planned is the kitchen. The tea and toast from last night are long gone, and I was hoping I could return the favor by making breakfast for Nick. But first I have to find him.

The west side of the house is as empty as it was last night, so I pad through the main foyer and head to the unexplored east wing, past the dining room and kitchen to another hallway.

Whap!

What?

Whap thok! Whapwhapwhapthokwhap! Thok thok THOK!

My breath hitches in my chest as the strange sounds echo along the old wood paneling in the hallway. They’re coming from a room about thirty feet down and to my left, and there’s something undeniably violent about them.

I open my mouth to call Nick’s name, but stop myself before I do. Drawing attention to myself is a bad idea. Instead, I tiptoe down the hall, my back to the wall, towards the sounds. They’re even louder as I reach the open doorway: WhapWhapWhapTHOKWhap!

But now there’s something else mixed in: panting. And… is that grunting?

Across from me in the hallway is a large antique mirror that shows me a reverse image of what’s going on in the room. In its reflection, I see Nick’s bare torso glistening with sweat as his fists slam into a series of pads set up inside a wooden apparatus of some sort. That’s the whap.

The thok is the edge of his hands colliding with wooden cylinders set up at various points between the pads.

I let out a shaky breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. Everything is fine. I’m still safe.

As my fear ebbs away, my attention turns to Nick’s reflection. My impression of his body last night was on the mark: his shoulders are cannonballs, his arms wrapped in steel cables of muscle. His belly looks hard enough to stop a bullet. Swollen veins bulge against the skin of his biceps and forearms, making him seem animalistic somehow.

His back is ramrod-straight as he goes through his techniques, driving his fists into the pads and then following that with a sideways thrust with the edge of his hands into the wooden cylinders. The apparatus shakes a bit each time a strike hits home.

The motions are almost hypnotic to watch, like a conductor leading a symphony of violence. I can only imagine the damage that a single one of those blows might inflict on a human body, let alone one right after another.

Nick was obviously telling the truth when he said he could protect me. The question I can’t help but ask myself is whether anything could protect me from him.

The noises stop and I see Nick’s reflection pluck a hand towel from the apparatus. As he wipes the sheen of sweat from his face, I can’t help myself from stepping into the doorway and clapping.

He looks at me, startled, and the sudden flash of anger in his eyes chills my heart for a moment. But it’s gone again just as quickly.

“I’m sorry,” I say hesitantly. “I didn’t mean to spy, really. It’s just that was – I mean, wow. Amazing.”

He drapes the towel around his shoulders and surprises me by smiling and doing a little stage bow.

“I’ve never had an audience before,” he says.

The thought flashes through my mind: At least not one that was conscious when it was over.

I scold myself for it. I don’t know that he’s ever used this skill on another person. That’s a pretty big leap to make for someone I barely know.

Is it really? says a voice in my head. I think you know more about Nick than you’re willing to admit.

Shut up, brain. I don’t have the luxury of second-guessing the man who’s protecting me from Arkady. He is who he is, and I should be thankful for it.

“It’s almost like a dance,” I say, wincing inwardly at how lame that sounds. “Except with your hands instead of your feet.”

He nods. “Very good. that’s exactly how my father explained it to me when he taught me.”

“What is it? Karate?”

“Just something he learned in the army,” he says with a dismissive wave.

“Could you teach me?” I blurt before my mind has a chance to stop my mouth.

My stomach sinks as his eyebrows rise. He thinks I’m a fool, he’s going to tell me that I’m a silly little girl, and this is something for grown men, I just know it. Why did I ask?

You know why you asked, says the voice in my head. Arkady.

To my total surprise, he says, “If you like.”

I blink at him stupidly for a few seconds. “Really?” I say finally. “You’re sure?”

“Why not?”

Nick may not be the chattiest guy in the world, but I’m liking him more with every passing minute. He motions for me to come stand where he is and hands me a pair of lightly padded leather gloves.

“You’ll need these,” he says. “It takes years to get to the point where you can use bare knuckles.”

As I get closer, I see that his knuckles aren’t his only tattoos. There are multi-pointed stars on each of his upper pectorals, and what look to be a pair of epaulettes on his shoulders, like on a military uniform. But the colors on all of them have faded to the point where they’re only visible up close.

I ignore them. Nick’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy toward me is a godsend. The least I can do is offer him the same respect.

As I pull on the gloves, Nick stands behind me and takes me by the shoulders, positioning me so that I’m facing the apparatus head-on.

“It’s important that you’re always facing forward,” he says in my ear, setting off a flock of butterflies in my tummy. “It’s called linear fighting.”

“Linear,” I say because I can’t think of anything else. “Got it.”

“Try a punch like you normally would.”

I do, landing on the pad with a weak slapping noise. It sounds like a toddler hitting a teddy bear compared to Nick’s strikes.

“The power of your strike comes from your hips and legs, not your arms,” he says.

I blink. “How does that work?”

Suddenly his huge hands are gripping my hips and my heart is racing. He pushes my right hip forward with a powerful thrust, pulling the left back with the reverse motion.

“The power is in the pivot,” he says. “You just need to strike in time with the movement.”

“Pivot and punch,” I breathe. “Got it.”

“Now try combining the two.”

Pivot and punch. Move my hips and my arm. I want so badly to impress him, even though I really don’t know why.

I take a breath and twist, driving my right arm forward as best I can.

Thwap!

The blow sends an uncomfortable jolt up the length of my arm all the way to my shoulder, but I don’t let it show.

Nick whistles softly in my ear, almost making me lose my balance.

“Impressive,” he says, his hands still warm on my hips. “I didn’t throw a punch like that until months after I started training.”

“I just pictured somebody’s face on the pad,” I say, trying to sound like I’m kidding. In fact, it had been Arkady in my mind’s eye.

Nick is so close behind me that I can smell the musk generated by his workout. My heart gallops in my chest as his powerful hands turn me to face him.

“You might be a natural at this,” he says, the cold embers of his eyes locked on mine. “I think you have an edge to you, even if you don’t see it.”

“Takes one to know one,” I breathe.

Jesus, did I really just say that? He must think I’m a child!

“You’re right,” he says. “We’re two of a kind, I think.”

Before I know what’s happening, my arms are around his neck, pulling his face to mine. His lips are like hot leather against mine as I open my mouth to accept him. He does the same, and my tongue slides in greedily.

What am I doing? I barely know this man! He’s old enough to be my father!

The thoughts don’t stop me from tangling my fingers in that black hair as he grips my hips with his huge hands. My heart is pounding so hard he must be able to feel it against his own chest. It all seems so crazy!

But it all seems so right, too.

Nick gives as good as he gets, meeting my passion with his own until his arms are wrapped completely around my waist. He pulls me toward him and I can feel hard warmth pressing against me under the thin fabric of my sweatpants.

His mouth finally breaks contact with mine and moves to my ear. “Storm,” he whispers.

The sound of this name that he gave me makes me want him even more.

“We have to stop,” he breathes. “This isn’t right.”

The spell breaks with a rush of blood into my cheeks, and suddenly I’m mortified. What was I thinking? He’s done so much for me and I just decide to maul him out of nowhere!

“I’m so sorry,” I say, pushing myself away from him. “I don’t know what came over me. You’ve been nothing but wonderful to me…”

He grabs me by the shoulders and locks eyes with me again. I’m trapped in that gaze, unable to move.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “I just – I wasn’t ready. Not right now. But we have time.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Unless you’re going somewhere?”

“Uh,” I say. “I mean no. No, I’m not going anywhere. Unless you want me to. Do you?”

“No.”

“That’s good. I’ll stay.”

“Good.”

He lets go of me and I take a deep breath, trying to overcome the shame that’s coursing through me. He’s still okay with me. I haven’t ruined things. I’m still safe, at least for now.

Nick surprises me by chuckling, which sets off another wave of nerves.

“Did I say something funny?” I ask.

He shakes his head and points to the door. I follow his finger to see Samson and Delilah sitting in the doorway, both tails wagging like mad.

“I think they approve,” he says.

Against all sanity, I start to giggle myself.