Page 12 of Hero Daddy

"I don't want to be afraid anymore," I said again, the words steadier this time.

Chad nodded, a simple acknowledgment that carried the weight of a promise. "With proper training, you won't be. Not like before." He paused, then added, "It won't happen overnight. It requires commitment. Regular practice. Are you willing to do that?"

The question wasn't a challenge but an honest assessment of my readiness. He wasn't trying to sell me on anything or make empty promises. He was being straightforward about what would be required of me.

"Yes," I said, surprised by the firmness in my voice. "I am."

“Sometimes, it might require discipline.”

“I can handle that.”

Something shifted in Chad's expression—a subtle change that might have been approval, might have been respect. "Good," he said simply.

"Will you teach me?" I asked, the question emerging more vulnerable than I'd intended. "Personally, I mean? At least until I'm ready for the group classes?"

Chad studied me for a moment, his gray eyes intent. I had the distinct impression he was weighing factors beyond my simple request—my determination, perhaps, or my potential.

"Yes," he said finally. "Two sessions a week to start. Tuesdays and Saturdays. We'll evaluate your progress after a month."

His tone brooked no argument, not that I would have offered one. The structure, the clear expectations, felt reassuring rather than restrictive.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it more deeply than the simple words could convey.

Chad's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Don't thank me yet," he warned, though the slight curve of his mouth took any sting from the words. "You haven't seen my teaching methods. I'm not an easy instructor."

"I don't want easy," I said with unexpected conviction. "I want effective."

This time his smile was undeniable, brief but genuine, transforming his face from handsome to breathtaking for the span of a heartbeat. "Then we'll get along just fine, Little One."

There it was again—that endearment that made my insides flutter in a way that had nothing to do with fear. No one had ever called me that before, and coming from him, with his quiet strength and watchful eyes, it felt like being claimed and protected all at once.

"Let me show you something very simple," Chad said, his voice softening, carrying an undertone I couldn't quite identify but that made my heart beat faster. He stood with the fluid grace Iwas starting to recognize as distinctly his, then extended a hand to help me up. "No pressure, just so you can feel what I mean." The simple gesture—his hand offered palm up, waiting for mine—felt strangely significant, like more than just assistance to stand.

I placed my hand in his, feeling dwarfed by his broader palm and stronger fingers. He helped me to my feet with minimal effort, the strength in his arm evident in how lightly he handled my weight. Once standing, I expected him to release me immediately, but he held my hand a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly across my knuckles before letting go.

The touch sent an electric current racing up my arm, lodging somewhere beneath my ribs. I tried to attribute it to nervousness about the demonstration, but I wasn't a good enough liar to convince even myself.

We moved to the center of the small matted area. My heart beat a rapid tattoo against my ribs, though no exertion warranted it. Chad positioned himself facing me, his stance relaxed but attentive, feet planted solidly on the mat.

"Imagine someone grabs your wrist," he instructed, then reached out slowly, his left hand encircling my right wrist. His touch was gentle, his grip firm but not painful. His fingers were warm against my skin, calloused in places that spoke of years of training. "This is a common attack. People instinctively grab before they do anything else. Even trained fighters sometimes make this mistake."

His hand completely encircled my wrist, his thumb and middle finger overlapping slightly. The contrast—his tanned skin against my paler wrist, his strength against my softness—created a visual that sent an unexpected jolt straight up my arm, making me feel suddenly very small and very aware of him.

"The natural response is to pull away, to try to break the grip with strength," Chad continued, his voice low and steady. "But that rarely works if your attacker is stronger. Instead, you use leverage and movement."

He maintained his grip on my wrist, his eyes meeting mine to ensure I was following. The intensity of his gaze made it difficult to focus on his words rather than the sensation of his skin against mine, the slight pressure of his fingers creating a point of heat that seemed to radiate up my arm.

"Watch," he said, then used his free hand to demonstrate on his own wrist. "You don't pull back. You rotate your arm like this, moving with the weakest part of their grip, here, between the thumb and index finger."

He guided my arm through the motion, his movements gentle but precise. "Like that. Good girl. See how it works?"

His head was close to mine as he demonstrated, his breath warm against my ear. His proximity was overwhelming; I could smell that sandalwood scent again, mixed with the clean scent of his skin. And his quiet praise—"Good girl"—made a dizzying warmth spread through me, settling low in my belly.

"Now you try," he said, adjusting his grip on my wrist. "I won't resist too much at first. Just feel the movement."

I tried to focus on the technique rather than the sensation of his hand on my skin. I rotated my wrist as he'd shown me, feeling the pressure of his grip lessen as I moved against the weaker point between his thumb and forefinger.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a low rumble that I could almost feel through the air between us. "Now add a little more force. Step into it as you turn."

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