He starts with the basics. How to break a hold. How to use my size to my advantage instead of treating it as a weakness. He’s methodical, his instructions clear and easy to follow, and he doesn’t touch me more than he needs to. When he does, a hand repositioning my elbow, a tap on my hip to adjust my stance, there’s no lingering.
“Your speed is your best asset,” he says after a while, circling me. “But speed without technique just means you run into things faster. You need to know where to hit and when.”
I’m breathing harder now, but there’s an energy in me I haven’t felt in a long time. Not the adrenaline of being chased or the desperation of fighting for my life. Something better—the feeling of strength and confidence growing within me.
“Alright,” Archer says, dropping into a fighting stance. “Come at me.”
I lunge at him. Fast. He sidesteps me like I’m moving in slow motion. “Not bad. But you need more than speed to take down an alpha.”
“Oh, yeah?” I pant, circling him. “Like what?”
“Like this.”
He moves so fast I barely see him move. One second I’m on my feet, the next I’m on my back. Archer is pinning me. His weight is controlled and careful, just precise enough that I can’t move. His forearms cage my head. His hips pin mine. And hisface is right there, inches away, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my mouth.
My brain saysfight.My body says something else entirely.
“See?” he says, voice low. “Technique. Leverage. Use their size against them.”
“Ahem,” Elias clears his throat suggestively.
Archer pulls me to my feet like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t just pressed against every inch of me. Like my pulse isn’t still slamming against my throat.
“Again,” I say, because apparently I’m a masochist.
He raises an eyebrow. “Again?”
“Again. And slower this time, so I can actually see what you did.”
He walks me through the move step by step, showing me the pivot, the hip rotation, where to put my hands, and how to use the other person’s momentum against them.
For the next hour, he drills me.
Every time he puts me on my back, I learn the move a little better and want him a little more. I tell myself it’s adrenaline. Tell myself the flush creeping up my neck is exertion. Tell myself the reason I keep asking for one more round has everything to do with technique and nothing to do with the weight of him on top of me.
In the forest, I survived on instinct. Speed and luck, and the fact that most things bigger than me assumed I wasn’t worth the trouble. But instinct only gets you so far. Archer is giving me something different. Something I can keep.
We go over the same moves, over and over, until my muscles memorize them. It’s hard, and my arms are shaking by the end, but I don’t ask to stop.
“Alright,” he says finally. “Time to try it for real. Elias, you’re up.”
Elias strolls over, cracking his knuckles with a grin. “Try not to enjoy this too much, sweetheart.”
I bare my teeth at him playfully. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy this a lot.”
He comes at me, arms open, telegraphing the grab the way Archer told him to. I step in, pivot, grab his wrist, drop my weight, and twist. Elias hits the ground with a thud and a wheeze of surprise.
I stand over him, breathing hard, and a grin breaks across my face before I can stop it.
Elias looks up at me from the dirt. “Damn, Blueberry.” He sounds genuinely proud of me, despite the fact that I just knocked him on his ass.
Clapping sounds from the porch. I glance over. Silas is laughing that silent, full-body shake I’ve only seen from him a handful of times. His dark eyes are crinkled, and he grips the railing as if he needs it to stay upright.
Archer nods, arms crossed. “Good. We’ll work on the follow-through, but the instinct is there.”
“Again,” I say.
Elias groans from the ground. “Can we at least negotiate the terms?”