"First lesson tomorrow morning. Six AM," he said, his tone professional once more. "Wear something you can move in."
Then he was gone, the door to his bedroom closing with quiet finality.
I sank onto my bed, my mind replaying his words in the car. Would he really have hurt Frederick? The cold precision in his voice suggested he was more than capable of it. That he'd had detailed thoughts. The realization should have repulsed me—instead, it sent another forbidden thrill down my spine.
What was wrong with me?
Sleep proved elusive that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw James's face, heard his voice, felt the phantom touch of his hands on my skin. When I finally drifted off, my dreams were a confused blend of desire and danger, of James protecting me and James claiming me, until I couldn't tell which was which.
I woke before my alarm, the gray light of dawn barely filtering through my curtains. Five-thirty. Still half an hour before I would face James again. I showered quickly, then pulled on leggings and a fitted t-shirt, twisting my hair into a tight braid.
When I emerged from my room, I found James already in the living room. He'd pushed the furniture against the walls, creating an open space in the center. He wore black track pants and a fitted gray t-shirt that did nothing to hide the muscular contours of his chest and arms.
"You're early," his voice deliberately neutral.
"So are you," I replied, watching him roll out a thin exercise mat.
"Let's get something straight first," he said, straightening to face me. "This isn't about Frederick. This is about your safety. I don't want a situation to arrise, that put’s you in a position rendering you defenceless. Do you understand?."
I nodded, grateful for the shift to a more professional dynamic. "Alright."
"The first thing you need to understand about self-defense is that it's about efficiency, not strength." He stepped closer, his scent—that familiar blend of sandalwood and something uniquely him—enveloping me. "Most attackers will be physically stronger than you. Your advantage is in technique, not power."
For the next hour, James taught me basic defensive stances, how to break holds, and where to strike to cause maximum damage with minimal effort. His instruction was precise; his demonstrations clear. When he needed to adjust my position, his touch was impersonal, fleeting—nothing like Frederick's lingering hands. Yet each brief contact sent electricity through me.
"Again," he said after I'd failed to break his grip for the third time. "You're not committing fully. If this were real, you'd be dead."
"I don't want to hurt you," I admitted, frustrated by my hesitation.
Something like amusement flickered across his face. "You won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do," he replied simply. "Now, again."
This time when he grabbed me from behind, I executed the move exactly as he'd taught me—twisting, dropping my weight, using his momentum against him. To my surprise, it worked. James stumbled forward, caught off-guard by my sudden compliance with his instructions.
"Better," he said, righting himself. "Much better."
We continued for another half hour, James showing increasingly complex escapes and counters. By the end, I was sweating, breathing hard, and strangely exhilarated.
"That's enough for today," he said finally, stepping back to create space between us. "We'll practice again tomorrow. Same time."
"Thank you," I said, genuinely appreciative despite the circumstances that had led to this lesson. "That was... informative."
He nodded once, already moving to replace the furniture. "Go shower. You have class in an hour."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of lectures and labs. James maintained his usual distance at the university, a shadow in the background of my academic life. If my professors or classmates noticed anything different about his attentiveness, they didn't mention it.
That evening, I texted Octavia and Gabriela, suddenly desperate for the company of friends who knew me as somethingother than a princess or a security assignment. It had been weeks since I'd seen them properly—between Alexandra's death, the funeral, and the intensity of my last semester, there had been little time for social connections.
Coffee tomorrow after class? I miss you both. Need friend time desperately.
Octavia replied almost immediately: FINALLY! Thought you'd forgotten us. Therapy Café at 4?
I glanced at James, who was working on his laptop at the kitchen counter. "I'm meeting Octavia and Gabriela for coffee tomorrow after class."
He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Where?"
