Page 60 of Knot Like Other Girls

"How would you feel about learning some self-defense?" he asks.

I blink, caught off guard by the question. "What?"

"Self-defense," he repeats. "Basic stuff. How to break a hold, throw a punch. Might help with that excess energy you're carrying right now." He gives me a lopsided grin. "And the next time you're dealing with an asshole alpha, you'll know exactly what to do."

"A kick to the balls," Troy adds. "Or a throat punch. Both decent choices."

The laugh that bubbles up in my chest is a huge relief.

The idea is... appealing, actually. Very appealing. My body is still humming with unspent adrenaline, my muscles tight and twitching. And he's right. It would be good to know how to defend myself. Just in case.

Not that Braxley would ever actually hurt me.

Probably.

"I... yes," I say, surprising myself with how quickly I agree. "I'd like that."

Liam grins. "Brilliant. I saw a gym when Braxley was giving us the tour. Doesn't look like it gets much use, despite all his talk about those foul green shakes of his and 'clean' living."

He's right. Braxley's gym is just another backdrop for his social media posts. I don't think I've ever seen him actually work out there.

"Now?" I ask, glancing down at my clothes. I'm still in my jeans and sweater.

"If you want. Though you might want to change into something more comfortable first."

I nod and stand, carefully setting Cole's carving on the counter. Then I hesitate, not wanting to leave it where Braxley might get to it again.

"I'll keep an eye on it," Savva says, correctly interpreting my concern. "No one will touch it."

"Thank you," I murmur, then hurry off to change.

I dig through my suitcase until I find a pair of yoga pants and a tank top. I change quickly, pulling my hair back into a messy bun.

When I return to the kitchen, Liam is waiting for me. He's changed too, now wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off the full extent of his tattoos. The black and gray designs cover both arms and hands completely like intricate sleeves, broken up here and there only by a few thin inkless scars.

"Ready?" he asks.

I nod, following him down the hallway to Braxley's private gym. It's a beautiful space, all chrome and glass like everything else in the penthouse. One wall is entirely mirrors, and the floor is covered in expensive rubber matting. Various pieces of pristine exercise equipment line the walls, looking like they've never been touched.

"Right then," Liam says, moving to the center of the room. "First things first—stance."

For the next several minutes, he walks me through the basics. How to stand, how to make a proper fist, how to move. His teaching style is patient but firm, correcting my form with gentle touches and clear explanations.

"Good," he says as I mirror his stance. "Now, I'm going to come at you slowly, and I want you to block like I showed you. Ready?"

I nod, trying to remember everything he's taught me. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, hands up to protect my face.

He moves toward me in slow motion, throwing a punch that I know he could make blindingly fast if he wanted to. I manage to block it, just like he showed me, deflecting his arm to the side.

"Well done!" he praises. "Again, a bit faster this time."

We continue like this, gradually increasing the speed. Each successful block builds my confidence a little more. Soon, I'mnot just blocking but countering, throwing my own punches—which he easily deflects—and even attempting some of the kicks he's showing me.

It feels... good.

Really good.

With each movement, some of the anxiety I've been carrying starts to bleed away. The physical exertion burns through the lingering adrenaline from my confrontation with Braxley, replacing it with a different kind of energy. Something cleaner, more focused.

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