"Not like that," I say, reaching for her hand. "You'll break your thumb that way."
I uncurl her fingers and reshape them, positioning her thumb outside her fist. Her hand is so small in mine, soft and warm. My callused fingers dwarf hers, and I'm suddenly painfully aware of every place our skin touches.
"Wrist straight," I continue, forcing my voice to remain steady. "You want the force to travel through your arm, not bend back and hurt you."
She attempts a practice punch and winces immediately. "Ow."
"You're turning your wrist at the last second." I move behind her, aligning my arm with hers to demonstrate the proper form. "Like this."
My chest presses against her back, her body fitting perfectly against mine. Her scent fills my senses—meadowmint and something uniquely her, something that makes my heart pound against my ribs. I'm too close. This is too much.
I want all of it and I hate myself for it.
She follows my movement, punching the air with better form. "Like that?"
"Better," I manage, stepping back before I do something stupid like bury my face in her hair. "Again."
She practices the motion several more times, growing more confident with each attempt. There's something mesmerizing about watching her—this woman who's been treated as property learning to claim her power.
"Now try hitting one of those targets," I suggest, nodding toward the jars.
She approaches cautiously, assumes the stance I taught her, and swings. Her fist connects with the jar, sending it tumbling off the post. A startled laugh escapes her—a sound so rare and beautiful it catches me off guard.
"I did it!" Her face glows with genuine delight, and something in my chest constricts painfully.
"You did," I agree, unable to keep the warmth from my voice. "Try another one."
She moves to the next jar, swinging with more confidence. This time when she connects, she doesn't wince or pull back. Progress.
"Good," I say, and mean it. "Your form is improving already."
She turns to me, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "This feels... I don't know. Different than I expected."
"How so?"
"I thought learning to fight would make me feel more afraid. More aware of the danger." She flexes her fingers, examining her knuckles. "But it's the opposite. It's like... reclaiming something."
Understanding washes through me. This isn't about turning her into a fighter—it was never about that. It's about giving her back what was stolen: control over her own body, her own safety.
"That's exactly what it should feel like," I tell her. "The goal isn't violence. It's choice. The power to decide what happens to you, as much as anyone can."
Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but they're different from the ones I've seen before. These aren't born of fear or pain.
"Thank you," she whispers.
The morning light catches in her hair, turning it to living flame. Sweat glistens on her collarbone where my shirt has slipped to reveal her skin. She's breathtaking—and completely oblivious to the effect she has on me.
I want her. The realization isn't new, but the intensity of it stuns me anew. I want to pull her against me, to taste her lips, to show her that touch can be gentle, respectful, wanted. The desire burns through me like Amerinth, and shame follows quick on its heels.
She's vulnerable. Traumatized. Seeking safety, not whatever confused tangle of protection and desire I'm offering. I have no right to want her this way. No right to imagine her hands on me instead of those targets.
I clear my throat and step back, putting necessary distance between us. "Ready to try something a little more challenging?"
I walk Aurelie through a few more defensive moves—how to break a hold on her wrist, where to strike if someone grabs her from behind. By mid-morning, she's sweaty and breathing hard, but there's a new confidence to her movements that makes pride swell in my chest.
"That's enough for today," I say, noting how she's starting to favor her right side. "You're doing well, but we don't want to push too hard."
Sephy stirs in her bassinet, making those small grunting sounds that precede full-blown cries. Aurelie immediately moves toward her, motherly instinct overriding everything else.