Page 18 of Knuckles & Knives

“No,” he agrees quietly. “You’re not.”

He studies my face for another long moment, and I can practically see him weighing options and calculating risks. Finally, he sighs, the sound heavy with reluctance.

“Against my better judgment…” He moves to one of the equipment lockers and pulls out a pair of focus mitts. “Fine, but we do this my way. No arguments. No complaints when it gets hard.” He slides the mitts onto his hands, the leather creaking softly. “And it will get hard, Raven. I don’t believe in going easy on people.”

“Good. I don’t want you to.”

For the next hour, he puts me through combinations I thought I knew until he breaks them down and rebuilds them from the ground up. My jab is too telegraphed. My footwork is sloppy when I’m tired. I drop my guard when I get aggressive.

“Again,” he says after I miss a cross-hook combination for the third time. “And this time, don’t think so much. Feel the rhythm.”

“I am feeling it.”

“No, you’re analyzing it. There’s a difference.” He adjusts my stance with his hands, the contact brief but electric. “Stop trying to perfect every movement and let your body remember what it already knows.”

I try again, and this time, something clicks. The combination flows naturally, each strike setting up the next.

When I finish, Dom nods approval. “Better, but you’re still holding back.”

“I’m not?—”

“You are.” He drops the mitts and steps closer, invading my personal space in a way that makes every nerve ending come alive. “You fight like you’re afraid of hurting someone.”

“That’s not true.”

“Prove it.” He gestures toward the sparring mats. “Show me you can actually throw a punch like you mean it.”

The challenge in his voice ignites something primal in my chest. I follow him to the center of the mats, where we circle each other like predators testing boundaries. No protective gear, just skin and determination.

“Rules?” I ask.

“Don’t break anything I can’t fix.” His smile is sharp, even dangerous. “Everything else is fair game.”

He comes at me fast, testing my reflexes with a series of quick jabs that I slip and counter. We fall into a rhythm. He attacks, I defend and respond, neither of us trying to end it quickly. This isn’t about winning. It’s about pushing limits, finding edges, and discovering what breaks first.

“There,” he says after I land a solid body shot that makes him grunt. “That’s what I wanted to see. Again.”

We reset and go again, harder this time. Dom’s technique is flawless, but he’s holding back enough that I can keep up. Withinminutes, I’m breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes as I work to match his pace.

“You’re getting sloppy,” he warns.

He immediately follows up with a combination that breaks through my guard. His fist stops just short of my face, close enough that I feel the displaced air.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted. This is exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t know when to quit.” Instead of stepping back, he stays close, his breath warm against my cheek. “In a real fight, that gets you killed.”

“Then maybe you should teach me better endurance.”

The words come out breathier than I intended, and I see his pupils dilate slightly. We’re still pressed together from the stopped punch, and I fight the urge to lean into him.

“Raven, this is a bad idea.” But he doesn’t move away.

“What is?” But I know what he means. I can feel it too. The current running between us is electric and dangerous.

“Getting involved with you. Crossing that line.” His free hand comes up to trace the scar above my eyebrow, the touch feather-light. “I’m supposed to protect you, not?—”

“Not what?”