Page 42 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

“I’ve decided you need to be better prepared for our way of life.” Patrick stands in front of me, blocking any sunshine that was making its way through the canopy of leaves overhead.

No matter where I am in this place, he finds me. Does he check the cameras dotted around the property? Or does he simply have a knack for knowing where I am? Which would I rather it be? Intuition or stalking?

He folds his arms across his broad chest. He’s wearing a plain black t-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms like some kind of regular human being. What’s next? Graphic tees and cargo shorts?

I almost choke on my own spit as I laugh at the image. I don’t think Patrick would be seen dead in cargo shorts no matter what time of year it is.

“Sorcha?” He crouches in front of me, face pinched with concern. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not used to you being so…” I wave an arm at him. “Casual. I thought that the next thing you’ll do is surprise me by wearing cargo shorts and a brightly co lored t-shirt plastered with a jokey meme. And then I laughed and almost choked at the mental image.”

“I’ll have you know that I have an extensive selection of brightly colored shirts and several pairs of shorts. My favorite shirt is hot pink with little flamingos on it.”

I study his still-serious face for signs that he’s lying, but there are none to be found.

“Really?”

That makes him chuckle. “No, mo mhuirnín. This is why you can never play poker with us. We’ll eat you alive.” He brushes his knuckles against my cheeks. “So innocent. Well, in some ways. You weren’t very innocent last night while I fucked you on the kitchen worktop, were you?”

His words make my skin sizzle. I lean into his hand, my body humming at the memory of his dick buried deep inside me, of how hard he made me come, and how illicit and addictive it felt. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems you like it when I’m not so innocent.”

His lips twitch. “It seems I like every version of you.” His praise curls around me like a warm blanket, mimicking how he spent the night curved around my body, seemingly unwilling to let me go.

Although when I woke this morning, he was already up.

His day seems to start before dawn and finish long after the sun has set.

“What were you saying before I almost died from laughing at you?”

He wags his finger back and forth. “That’s what happens when you mock me.” Holding out his hand, he motions with his head. “Come on, we have work to do.”

I place my hands one on top of the other on the book on my knee. “Where are we going? And what kind of work? Wasn’t the deal when I got here that I get to be a lady of leisure? And now you’re putting me to work? I’d like to speak to your manager.”

He flashes a rare smile, except, with me, they are starting to appear more often. “I have some bad news. The chain doesn’t go any higher. I spoke to my manager.” He points at himself. “And he says to get up off your arse because you need to learn some basic self-defense.”

I touch the back of my hand to his forehead.

“Talking about yourself in the third person? Joking? Do I need to call your security lead? Did someone give you a personality transplant while I was sleeping?” I lower my voice.

“Were you abducted by aliens and they decided to send you back with a new funny bone in place?” I glance at his crotch.

He hooks his arm around my elbow before hoisting me to my feet. “You need to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what? The day your heavies suddenly aren’t around to shoot anyone who comes within fifteen feet of me?”

His face darkens. “Could happen.”

I wave him off. “Really? Because they’re there when I’m awake, they’re there when I’m asleep.

Fuck, Patrick, they’re even there when I use the bathroom.

” I hold up my palm to stop whatever he’s about to say.

“Granted, they stay on the other side of the door, but I know at any given moment if I call out for help, at least three people are within earshot. So tell me again why I have to learn to protect myself?” I flutter my eyelids at him.

“Especially when all these burly, rugged men who never say a damn word to me are around to do it for me.”

He rolls his eyes. “This is serious, Sorcha.”

“And you decided this… when? This morning? That we need to start right this second?” I yawn, stretching my arms—and my book—overhead.

“It doesn’t matter when I decided, or why; what matters is we’re starting. And I’d like to start now. Unless your side is still hurting.”

He hardly ever mentions the gunshot wound I got when he and his men killed my family. I wonder if it’s because it never crosses his mind, or whether he doesn’t like how it makes him feel to know I came so close to not being here. There’s no point in asking him. He won’t tell me.

“It’s fine. I hardly notice it anymore.”

“Good.” He slaps my arse like he expects it’ll spur me forward. “Then we can go.”

“No can do, I’m afraid, oh bossy one. In case you failed to notice, I am spending some one-on-one time with Jean Valjean.” I make a move to sit back down. Patrick swoops on me. He bends his knees, drops his shoulder until it is level with my stomach, and before I know it, I’m hanging upside down.

“Patrick! Put me down, you big oaf!” I flail my feet and wallop his arse, but that does nothing other than wind him up even more.

It shouldn’t be surprising when he gives a sharp slap to my bum, but the burst of hot sting makes me shriek all the same.

“Keep fighting, and I’ll keep slapping.”

I bite my lip. It’s tempting to keep pushing him. That slap didn’t feel too bad, and I hate him thinking that he’s won so quickly. When I wiggle in his grip again, he slaps both cheeks, and instead of a squeal, this time a moan falls out of my mouth as he walks.

He makes a satisfied noise. “Does my wife like a little impact play? Interesting.” He doesn’t slap me again or put me down until we make it into the gym. There are thick blue mats laid out in the middle of the floor where he drops me unceremoniously on my still-throbbing backside.

“You need to learn how to punch someone.”

“If you teach me how to punch, you know I’m going to practice on you.”

His lip curls. “If you can land a punch on me, you’ll have earned it.

” He holds his hand out to help me to my feet.

“Our Liam’s the only one who can really hand my arse to me.

But since he’s a black belt in Muay Thai, he doesn’t count.

Plant your feet shoulder width apart. You’re right-handed, correct? ”

I nod.

“Step forward with your left foot, keep your knees soft and your weight evenly distributed across both feet. Okay?”

I nod again, doing what he says because, despite the fact I enjoy taking the mickey out of him, something in his demeanor tells me that this is something he really needs me to do.

He taps my face. “Tuck your chin to protect your jaw.”

I cover the side of my face with my shoulder.

“Most people think the power from a punch comes from their fist. They would be sorely mistaken. The power for a solid punch comes all the way from your feet; the power is in the rotation.” He grips my hips and turns me back and forward.

“Feet, knees, hips, shoulders, fist. The entire body rotates for maximum striking power.”

Why is everything that comes out of his mouth sounding hotter and hotter? The way his jaw is hard set, the way his eyes burn with an intensity as he teaches, the lines in the middle of his forehead that tell me he’s not fucking around.

He takes my hand. “To make a proper fist, fold your fingers and wrap your thumb across the middle sections of your index and middle fingers. Keep both hands up to protect your face, tuck your elbows to guard your ribs, and keep your wrists straight until you strike.”

My mind is a blur of instructions as he rattles them off like it’s no big deal, like I already know what he’s talking about, and he’s just giving me a refresher.

There’s so much to learn, so much to remember.

Since when does throwing a punch require three hundred different steps?

I always thought you just flung your arm out in someone’s direction and hoped for the best.

“Start with your striking hand near your chin, elbow down. Rotate your feet, hips, and shoulders toward your target. As you extend your arm to strike, rotate your fist about twenty-five degrees so your palm faces downward on impact.”

I blow out a breath. “Okay, Drill Sergeant. Can you stop barking orders at me, and pretend like I’m not one of your mafia soldiers who just needs a reminder of what they’re supposed to be doing?

Let’s say, for the sake of argument, this is my first time.

When I punched my siblings growing up, there was no multi-point plan.

I aimed, I flailed, and I ran the fuck away in case they wanted to hit back. ”

He smirks. “Sometimes running away is the best option. Now, pay attention. The first two knuckles are the ones that make contact. Exhale on impact, and for the love of all that’s holy, do not drop your back hand, or whoever you’re punching will clobber the shite out of you when you do.”

“Maybe I need Liam to come and give me this lesson? You’re not a great teacher, do you know that?”

He ignores my jibe about his brother and shakes his head.

He takes me by the wrist, sending little shivers racing through my body at the contact.

“As soon as you strike, you reset for the next strike. The longer your hands are away from your face, the more likely that your opponent is going to knock you out.”

“Where am I supposed to look? In their eyes?”

He shakes his head. “Another misconception. Stare at their chest, pretend there’s a logo there or something, but that way you have a better peripheral view in case something else comes at you.

Look at my eyes.” He swings his arm. “Now look at my chest.” Another swing.

“You’re more likely to see it coming if your eyes are here, not here. ” He points from his pecs to his face.

“Anything else?” My impatience is simmering. He’s ignoring my request to go slower, he’s prattling on about technique when I haven’t even thrown a punch yet, and there are so many steps to remember that I’m going to forget them all.

“Yes. Don’t overextend, you’ll lose your balance. Don’t hit with the wrong knuckles, you’ll break your hand. If you don’t engage your core as you rotate, you’ll lose power on the follow-through. Got it?”

I flap both my hands into the air and slap them down against my thighs. “No, genius. Of course I don’t have it.”

A snicker tells me we’re not alone in here, and a glance toward the door shows me two of the security team have joined us. I bet the whole fucking team would love to be here to watch me try to punch their boss. In fact, they’re probably all jealous.

“You took thirty seconds to yammer instructions at me, Patrick. There’s no way I’m remembering any of them. Can you go through it again? Please?”

“No.” He stands in front of me and puts his palms up to face me. “Try punching me first.”

When I throw a punch, he purses his lips. “Again.”

I do.

“Again.”

And another.

He widens his stance, clamps his hands on my hips, and rotates me. “Like this. From the ground, up through your body, and into your hand. It’s all in the rotation, mo mhuirnín. You can do it, focus.”

I try again .

“Better.”

I have no idea how when it felt exactly the same as the last three times I threw my fist at his hand.

We practice for a good twenty minutes until sweat trickles down my forehead and my calves burn from holding them in a weird position. Who knew punching people could hurt this much?

Every time I try to punch him, he patiently corrects my form. Over, and over, he explains the foundational instructions for how to throw a technically accurate punch, and despite the fact he listed them off in rapid fire at first, he’s happy to repeat them every single time.

“Good. That’s it. Again.”

I preen at his praise. My arms may be heavy, my legs tired, and my hair getting frizzy from the sweat on my hairline, but being told my punches are getting better may be worth it. He seems pleased, and for some reason, that pleases me.

Ugh. Pathetic.

“Okay. That’s enough for today. We’ll move on to your next lesson tomorrow.”

I shake out my arms and legs. “Next lesson?”

“Ever shot a gun before?”

My mouth dries up so I can only shake my head in response.

“You’re about to learn.”