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“No. Self-defense. How to throw a proper punch.” The idea feels right as soon as I say it. “Everyone should know how to protect themselves.”

A flicker of interest crosses her face, quickly replaced by hesitation. “I wouldn't even know where to start.”

“I could teach you,” I offer. “Now, if you want.”

The way her father saw her—as nothing but a vessel for continuing the family line—makes my blood boil. It's too familiar, cuts too close to home. My own mother was just a convenient womb to Marcus St. James, discarded once she'd served her purpose. A mistress who gave him a bastard son, then disappeared from his life like she never mattered.

She deserved better. Vesper deserves better.

“You're more than what they've reduced you to,” I say quietly, watching as she finishes securing my wrap. “You're not just some prize mare to be bred.”

Her head lifts slightly, something flickering across her face—surprise, maybe. Or recognition.

“My father would disagree.”

“Your father is dead, princess. His opinions don’t matter anymore.” My voice hardens, steady with conviction. “Women aren’t baby factories. My mother was treated as if she didn’t matter after she gave birth to me. Like she’d served her only purpose. I won’t let anyone treat you that way.”

Vesper’s features soften at my admission. She brushes her thumb gently over my wrapped knuckle, the tenderness of the gesture unraveling something inside me.

“You remind me of him sometimes,” she says quietly. “Luca, I mean. He never saw women as objects either. My father hated that about him.”

“Your brother sounds like a good man.”

“The best,” she says, her voice catching. “Which is why I’m terrified of what they’re doing to him.”

Before I can think better of it, I reach out, cupping her face with my free hand.

“We’re going to find him, Vesper. I swear it.” She leans into the touch for a breath, her eyes fluttering shut. When they open again, they shine with fresh resolve.

“Teach me,” she says, firm. “Show me how to fight.” I nod and slowly let my hand drop from her cheek.

“First things first—stance.”

I step back, giving her space, and settle into position. “Feet shoulder-width apart, dominant foot slightly behind. Guard your face.” I raise my fists, demonstrating.

Vesper mimics me, her movements cautious but determined. I circle her, making small corrections—tilting her elbow, nudging her shoulder, adjusting the placement of her feet.

“Good,” I say, tapping her shoulder lightly to shift her posture. “Now, the jab. It’s not about power. It’s speed and precision. Quick out, quick back.”

I show her slowly, left fist darting forward, then snapping back to guard.

“Your turn,” I encourage.

Her first attempt is hesitant—arm not fully extending, wrist slightly bent.

“Almost. Keep your wrist straight, and punch through your target.” I step behind her, gently taking her arm. “May I?”

She nods, and I guide her through the motion, feeling the tension in her muscles. “Relax your shoulders, but keep your core tight. Power comes from here,” I tap her midsection lightly, “not just your arm.”

Vesper tries again, this time with more conviction. The movement is cleaner, her form improving already.

“Better. Again.”

She throws another jab, and another, each one more confident than the last. There's a natural athleticism to hermovements that suggests she could become proficient with proper training.

“Now add the cross—right hand straight from the chin, rotating your hip as you extend.” I demonstrate, then watch as she attempts to replicate the motion.

“I feel ridiculous,” she admits after a particularly awkward attempt.