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COLE

I check the security feeds while coffee brews. Empty screens. No movement in the trees surrounding us, a small mercy. I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension from constant vigilance. Three hours of sleep is better than none.

Molly still sleeps in the bedroom, curled into herself like something precious and wounded. That combination can make men dangerous. Some want to save it, while some want to break it. I still haven’t decided which one I am.

I stand in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over my chest as I study her sleeping form.

I shouldn’t watch her like this, but I do, noting every detail.

The rhythm of her breathing, the slight furrow between her brows that suggests her dreams aren’t entirely peaceful, the way her dark hair spills across the pillow in waves I’m tempted to touch.

My eyes trace the outline of her body beneath the thin sheet, remembering how it felt beneath my hands just hours ago.

There’s something voracious in my observation, something possessive I should suppress but don’t bother to.

Her survival depends on my awareness of every detail, I tell myself.

It’s a convenient justification for this quiet invasion of privacy.

I pour coffee into two mugs, the routine oddly domestic given our circumstances. My burner phone vibrates with an encrypted message from my contact. Borsellini’s men questioned a gas station attendant thirty miles south. They’re hunting, methodical and patient. We have time, but not much.

When I return to the bedroom, Molly is stirring, her petite frame almost lost in the rumpled bedding.

Her dark hair fans over the pillow in wild tangles, framing a face with delicate features that make her look deceptively fragile.

She stretches, exposing the curve of her pale neck where my fingers left slight bruises last night, my large hand capable of circling her throat completely.

The bruises on her throat send heat through me. Mine.

Last night, I’d worried I might break her, my towering frame dwarfing her slight build, but she’d taken everything I gave her. The contrast between us only feeds the darkest parts of my desire.

“Morning,” I say, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “We start training in fifteen minutes.”

Her eyes snap fully open, suddenly alert. “Training?”

“If Borsellini’s men find us, you need to know how to survive.”

She sits up, clutching the sheet to her, a pointless modesty after last night, but I don’t comment on it. “I’ve had firearms training and basic self-defense. I’m not helpless.”

“Against ordinary threats, maybe.” I lean against the doorway, giving her space. “Alessio doesn’t send ordinary threats.”

I leave her to dress, returning to the kitchen where I’ve spread maps across the table.

She emerges ten minutes later in the clothes I provided, cargo pants and a fitted black t-shirt that hugs her curves in ways my brain catalogs against my will.

Her hair is up in a loose, messy bun, and her face is completely free of makeup.

Somehow, she looks even more beautiful this way.

She looks younger, more vulnerable, and infinitely more determined.

“Show me,” she says, joining me at the table.

I tap the map. “Borsellini territory. Giovanni runs the traditional operations: gambling, protection, union control. Old-school and relatively predictable. But Alessio...” I trace a line through the various neighborhoods.

“He’s modernized. Money laundering through tech startups, blackmail operations targeting officials, strategic assassinations. ”

Her eyes narrow as she studies the map. “How deep does his influence go in law enforcement?”

“Deep enough that you weren’t safe in federal custody.” I meet her gaze directly.

She flinches but doesn’t look away. Her fingers trace the edge of the map, her prosecutor’s mind clearly working through the implications. “And your network can really keep me off their radar?”

“We’ve done it before.” I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t need the details. Not yet. “My contacts can track Borsellini movements that federal surveillance would miss.”

“And they won’t find us here?” The question is practical, not fearful.

“This place doesn’t exist on any records.” I close the map, watching her process the information. “We have a lot of resources.”

“What kind of resources?” Her prosecutor’s instinct for interrogation surfaces despite her situation.

“The kind that keeps people alive when official channels fail.” I evade specifics.

Her gaze is calculating, assessing. I can see her filing away the information, building her own theory. She doesn’t need to know about Killian yet. That knowledge comes with its own dangers.

“We need to start with physical training,” I say, clearing the maps. “If we’re separated or if I’m incapacitated, you need to defend yourself long enough to reach my backup.”

I need to see her capabilities. Not just her files or her training records. I need to see how she moves, how she reacts under pressure. Because when Alessio comes, and he will come, her life depends on what I teach her right now.

I push the furniture aside, creating a training space in the living room. She helps without being asked, adapting to the environment with quick efficiency. Another point in her favor.

“Attack me,” I instruct, standing relaxed in the center of the space.

She hesitates. “What?”

“If Alessio finds us, you’ll have less than thirty seconds before I can reach you. Show me what you know. Try to take me down.”

She lunges forward with decent form but telegraphs her movement.

I sidestep easily, catching her slender wrist between my fingers, the difference in our sizes almost comical.

With minimal effort, I twist her arm behind her back in one fluid motion, my strength fully overpowering hers.

She gasps as I pin her against me, her back to my chest, her whole body engulfed by my frame.

I could immobilize her with one hand if I wanted.

The knowledge sends a dark thrill through me I shouldn’t indulge.

“Again.”

For twenty minutes we repeat the exercise, her attacks growing more creative each time, but always ending with her restrained.

By the end, sweat dampens her shirt, and her movements have become more fluid, more instinctive.

Her breathing becomes labored, her skin flushed with exertion, and something else I recognize from last night.

I adjust my hold, pulling her tighter against me to demonstrate her vulnerability.

Her breath catches as her feet barely touch the ground.

At five foot four against my six foot six, she’s like a bird in a bear trap.

The fragility of her bones beneath my hands makes me acutely aware of how easily I could break her if I’m not careful.

“If I grab you like this,” I seize her from behind, one arm around her throat, “what’s your instinct?”

She struggles, trying to break my grip with pure strength.

“Wrong. That gets you killed.” I tighten slightly. “Think. Use my weight against me.”

On her third attempt, she drops her weight and twists correctly, slipping out of my hold. The triumph in her eyes ignites something in me.

“Better,” I acknowledge. “Now, floor techniques.”

I show basic grappling positions, showing her how to escape when pinned. Each time my body covers hers, I feel the shift in her breathing, the way she responds to my weight and proximity. Distance erodes with each point of contact.

“Your body needs to respond automatically.” I pin both her wrists in my hand. “Stop thinking.”

“That’s hard when you’re—“ She cuts herself off, but her meaning is clear from the way her hips shift beneath mine.

“Fear and arousal share the same chemical pathways,” I say, my voice dropping lower as I maintain the hold. “Learning to control both keeps you alive.”

Her pupils dilate. “Is that what we’re doing? Survival training?”

“Among other things.” I release one wrist, trailing my fingers down her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in their wake. “Stress management is critical in high-pressure situations.”

“And how exactly do we manage that?” Her now-free hand rests cautiously against my chest.

“By controlling the response.” I slide my hand beneath her shirt, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. “By learning when to surrender and when to fight.”

Her breath catches. “Show me.”

It’s all the permission I need. I capture her mouth with mine, feeling her immediate surrender. This isn’t like last night’s desperate claiming. This is intentional, and somehow more intense for it. I bite her lower lip, just hard enough to make her gasp, then soothe the sting with my tongue.

“Lesson one,” I murmur against her throat. “Control.”

I pin both her wrists above her head with one hand, my fingers easily encircling both. With my free hand, I pull her shirt up. Her breasts heave with each breath, nipples hardening against the simple cotton bra. I tear that away, needing to see all of her.

“You’ll learn to be still under any stimulation,” I tell her, my voice dropping to a register I barely recognize.

I trace slow, intricate patterns down her torso, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch.

When I reach her waistband, I don’t hesitate, unbuttoning her pants and sliding my hand inside, past damp cotton underwear, to find her already wet.

She arches into my touch with a broken moan.

“No,” I command, withdrawing completely. “Stay still. I’ll tell you when to move.”

Her eyes widen with understanding as I tease her, circling her clit with deliberate slowness, watching her fight the instinct to buck against my hand.

The first time she fails, grinding against my fingers, I pull away entirely.

The second time, her hips lift just slightly, and again I withdraw, leaving her trembling and unfulfilled.