Page 13 of Hero Daddy

I did as instructed, stepping forward slightly as I rotated my wrist. His grip loosened further, and for a brief moment, I felt the thrill of potential freedom, the sense that I could break away if I wanted to.

"Good," he said. "Again. This time, imagine you really want to get free."

His grip tightened slightly, offering more resistance. I repeated the movement, putting more intention behind it, stepping more definitively as I turned my wrist. This time, my hand slipped free of his grasp entirely.

"Good. That's it." His eyes met mine, deep and intense, and the professional distance momentarily vanished, replaced by a possessive heat that made my breath catch. It was a look that made me feel owned, protected, and undeniably thrilled. My knees felt weak, and I wasn't entirely sure it was from the exertion of the simple movement.

Chad held my gaze for a beat longer, his thumb still resting on my pulse point, which I was certain must be racing beneath his touch. Then he released my wrist, though the warmth of his fingers lingered like an imprint on my skin.

"Let's try once more, but I'll grab from behind this time," he said, his voice slightly lower than before. "It's a more realistic scenario."

He moved to stand behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, though we weren't quite touching. The back of my neck prickled with awareness, every nerve ending suddenly alert to his proximity.

"I'm going to reach around and grab your arm," he explained, his voice close to my ear. "The same principle applies, but the angle is different."

His arm came around from behind, his hand once again encircling my wrist. From this position, his chest was just millimeters from my back, his arm alongside mine. If I leaned back even slightly, I would be pressed against him. The thought sent a traitorous shiver down my spine.

"Now rotate and step, just like before," he instructed. "But this time, step away from me, creating space."

I tried the movement, but my coordination failed me. I stepped in the wrong direction, turning awkwardly, my body momentarily colliding with his. The contact was brief but electric—the solid wall of his chest against my shoulder, the unmistakable strength of him even in that glancing touch.

"Sorry," I muttered, heat flooding my cheeks.

"No need to apologize," Chad said, his voice steady but with an undertone I couldn't quite identify. "Let's reset and try again. This time, I'll guide you."

He repositioned himself behind me, but this time, his free hand came to rest lightly on my hip. The touch was professional, instructive, meant to guide my movement—but my body didn't know that. My skin heated beneath my t-shirt, and I had to force myself to keep breathing normally.

"When I grab your wrist, step this way," he said, his hand on my hip applying the slightest pressure to indicate the direction. "Turn as you go, using your body's rotation to help break the grip."

His hand tightened around my wrist, and I moved as directed, his hand on my hip guiding me through the correct stepping motion. This time, the technique worked—my wrist slipped free of his grasp as I created space between us.

"Good," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice though I couldn't see his face. "Very good. Natural movement."

I turned to face him, a smile pulling at my own lips in response to his approval. He was closer than I'd expected, and my rotation brought us face to face, barely a handspan between us. His eyes locked with mine, something unspoken passing between us in that moment of proximity. I could see flecks of darker gray in his irises, a small scar near his right eyebrow that I hadn't noticed before.

"Again," he said, his voice rougher than it had been a moment ago. "From the front this time."

He stepped back, creating professional distance once more, though the charged atmosphere lingered. We repeated the exercise several times from different angles, his hands guiding me with that same gentle firmness, repositioning my stance, adjusting the angle of my arm. Each touch was deliberately instructive, yet each sent that same electric current through me.

When I successfully executed the movement three times in a row, Chad nodded, satisfaction evident in the set of his shoulders. "Good. That's enough for today." He looked directly into my eyes, his gaze intense but warm. "You have good instincts. Your body learns quickly, even if your mind is still catching up."

The unexpected compliment made me stand a little straighter. "Really?"

"I don't say things I don't mean, Daliah," he replied simply. "False praise helps no one."

I believed him.

"What you just learned is a basic response to a common attack," he continued. "By itself, it's not enough to guarantee safety. But it's the first step in building a foundation of techniques that, with practice, become instinctive."

He moved back to the bench, gesturing for me to join him. I followed, oddly reluctant to end the physical portion of our session, to lose the excuse for his hands to guide my movements.

"The key is repetition," he said as we sat. "You need to practice these movements until your body performs them without conscious thought. That's why regular training is essential. I can teach you the techniques, but only consistent practice makes them effective in a real situation."

"How often should I practice?" I asked, eager to show my commitment, to earn more of his approval.

"Ideally? Daily. Even just five minutes of movement repetition helps build muscle memory." Chad's expression was serious,professional, yet I could sense his underlying passion for his teaching. "When you start formal lessons, I'll show you simple exercises you can do at home."

The thought of daily practice, of building this new skill piece by piece under Chad's watchful eye, filled me with a strange mixture of anticipation and nervousness. But beneath both those emotions ran something stronger—determination.

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