I try to step back. He doesn’t stop me. But the space between us doesn’t feel like enough. This isn’t training anymore. This is tension. Thick and charged and very, very dangerous.
My pulse races. “Chase…”
He meets my eyes. “Yeah?”
“I think we should stop.”
He nods immediately and steps back, giving me space like he promised he would. We stand there for a second, both of us breathing a little too fast.
“Good call,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree, even though part of me absolutely does not agree.
I tuck my hair behind my ear and laugh nervously. “So. Uh. Turns out self-defense is… intense.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It can be.”
We don’t say what we’re both thinking. But it’s there. In the quiet. In the way he looks at me like he’s holding something back. In the way I’m suddenly very aware that being safe with someone can feel a lot like wanting them.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
TEN
CHASE
The dim light from the single lamp on the table casts long shadows across the wooden floor of my cabin. The air still hums with the energy of our training session—sweat drying on my skin, the faint scent of pine mingling with Fiona's subtle floral shampoo. She's standing a few feet away, her chest rising and falling in quick breaths, cheeks flushed from the exertion. Or maybe from something else. We've been at this for hours, me showing her basic self-defense moves: how to break a hold, how to strike at vulnerable points, how to use her environment as a weapon. It's practical stuff, the kind I learned in the military and honed over years of bouncing between security gigs. But tonight, with her, it felt different. Too close. Too intimate.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, trying to steady myself. "That was good," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "You're picking it up fast."
Fiona nods, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes meet mine for a second, then dart away. "Thanks. I feel... better. More prepared." She pauses, biting her lower lip in that way thatdrives me insane without her even knowing it. "But it's late. We should probably stop. Things are getting... heated."
Heated. Yeah, that's one word for it. My pulse is thundering in my ears, and it's not just from the physical workout. Every time I grabbed her wrist to demonstrate a twist-out, or positioned her body against mine to show a hip throw, the contact sent sparks through me. Her skin warm under my fingers, her breath hitching when I pulled her close. I told myself it was just training, nothing more. But my body's betraying me now, a low ache building that has nothing to do with self-defense.
I step back, putting some distance between us, and nod. "You're right. Get some rest. We'll pick up tomorrow."
She smiles faintly, but there's a tension in it, like she's feeling it too. She turns toward the guest room, but hesitates at the door. "Chase... thank you. For everything. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. She's here because she's running from him— that piece of shit ex-boyfriend, Marcus. Fiona's safety is priority one. Not this... whatever this is churning inside me.
But as she lingers in the doorway, the soft glow of the lamp highlighting the curve of her neck, I can't stop the flood of thoughts. Her laugh earlier, when she finally nailed that elbow strike—pure, unfiltered joy. The way she trusts me, leaning into my guidance without question. It's been years since anyone looked at me like that. I'm supposed to be the stoic protector, the guy who keeps his head in a crisis. Not the one fighting a hard-on because of a training session.
"Chase?" Her voice pulls me back. She's turned fully now, concern etching her features. "You okay? You look... intense."
Intense. That's polite. I rub the back of my neck, forcing a chuckle that sounds fake even to me. "Yeah, just replaying the moves in my head. Making sure I didn't miss anything."
She steps closer, closing the gap I just created. Damn it. "You're always so focused. It's one of the things I admire about you." Her hand reaches out, tentative, touching my arm. It's innocent, a gesture of gratitude, but it ignites something primal in me.
My gaze drops to her lips, full and slightly parted. The cabin feels smaller suddenly, the walls closing in. Outside, the wind howls through the trees, a reminder of how isolated we are. No distractions, no interruptions. Just us.
I should pull away. Tell her goodnight. Lock myself in my room and take a cold shower until this fire in my veins cools. She's vulnerable, scared, depending on me. Kissing her would be crossing a line, complicating everything. What if Gavin finds out? What if this distracts me from the real threat?
But her eyes are locked on mine now, searching, and I see the spark there too. The way her breath quickens, her fingers lingering on my skin. "Fiona," I murmur, my voice low, almost a warning.
She doesn't move back. If anything, she leans in a fraction. "What?"
The air between us crackles. I can smell her—sweat and sweetness—and it's intoxicating. My resolve crumbles like dry leaves underfoot. Screw the shouldn'ts. Screw the danger for one damn minute. I need this. I need her.
I lean in, closing the distance, my hand cupping her cheek. Her skin is soft, warmer than I imagined. She doesn't pull away; instead, her eyes flutter half-closed, lips parting in anticipation. That's all the permission I need.