Page 38 of Alien Mercenary's Wife
She felt his heartbeat against her shoulder blade, steady and strong despite the physical exertion of supporting her full weight. The position pressed them together from shoulder to hip, intimate contact that scattered her thought processes until she stepped away.
"Again," she said, needing to master the technique and desperately needing distance from the way he made her body respond. "Slower this time."
They practiced the movement several times, each repetition building her confidence. Her pulse quickened every time his hands guided her position, every time she felt the solid warmth of his chest against her back.
"Your turn to catch me," he said when she'd mastered the basic fall.
The suggestion caught her off guard, and she blinked. "Wait… what? I can't support your weight. Not with my leg?—"
"It's not about weight. It's about positioning." He moved to stand in front of her, close enough that she could see gold flecks scattered through his blue-green eyes. "Same principle, different application. You guide the fall, control the direction. My weight becomes momentum you can redirect."
"What if I miss the timing?"
"Then I hit the mat." His grin was immediate, a glimpse into the boy he must have once been. "Been there, done that. Bruises heal."
"Show me," she said.
He positioned himself. "The attack comes from here. Instead of meeting force with force, you redirect."
He moved forward at quarter speed, giving her time to process the technique's movements. Her role was to guide his momentum sideways and down, using his own energy against him while maintaining her own balance. Simple… right?
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded, settling into the modified stance he'd taught her. Her damaged leg trembled slightly as she tried to support her weight, but the neural stimulator's gentle pulses helped stabilize the muscle response—good enough.
He moved forward again, this time at normal speed… for her. Probably half speed for him. She caught his momentum at the right moment, redirecting his energy in a smooth arc that sent him rolling across the mat in a controlled fall. He came up in a defensive crouch, grinning broadly.
"Perfect timing," he said, rising gracefully to his feet. "Again."
They worked through the technique repeatedly, building speed and precision with each iteration. She found herself anticipating his movements, reading the subtle shifts in his stance that telegraphed his intentions.
"This is a more complex combination," he said after she'd successfully redirected him for the sixth consecutive time. "Multiple attacks, different angles."
The combination came fast—multiple attacks, different angles, no breaks between them. She had to read his movements, adapt, and keep her balance while staying ready to strike or defend. They'd called it combat flow in training, muscle memory from years of drills.
T'Raal moved like he meant it. Controlled, but with an edge that made her pulse quicken. Not from the physical exertion—something else entirely.
This was what he'd looked like yesterday during the firefight. Focused, lethal, and with the kind of precision that came from years of real combat, not training exercises. She knew he was pulling his punches for her, and slowing down so she could keep up. Even restrained, he was impressive as hell.
Her body responded better than it had in months. Reflexes she'd thought were gone for good started coming back, rusty but functional. The neural stimulator helped with response time, but trusting him made the difference. Letting herself take risks she wouldn't usually attempt with her leg the way it was.
That trust nearly got her into trouble.
The final movement in the sequence required her to catch his feinted strike and redirect it into a takedown that would leave him vulnerable on the ground.
The muscle spasm hit without warning, her left knee buckling just as he committed to the attack. Instead of redirecting his momentum safely, she fell backward with nothing but empty air to catch her.
Strong arms wrapped around her before she could hit the deck. The movement spun them both around, his momentum carrying them into a controlled fall that ended with her pressed against his chest on the training mat.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. She was pinned beneath his larger body, his arms still wrapped around her, and his face close enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice rough with concern and something else. A rough burr that made her want to press her thighs together, but she couldn’t, because his hard, heavily muscled leg was between them.
She should answer. Should tell him she was fine, that it was just a cramp and he could let her go now. Instead, she noticed the way his pupils had dilated, the careful control in his breathing, and the fact that he was supporting his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing her.
"I'm fine," she managed, though the words came out breathier than intended.
His gaze dropped to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Good. That's good."
