Page 47 of Devoted

Downstairs, I find the guys working on the window of the bathroom beside the gym.

When Kase sees me, he flicks open the lock on the window. “Get ready. This is going to be loud.” He opens the window, and a piercing shriek blasts my eardrums.

I put my hands over my ears. That could wake the dead.

Cannon touches my elbow and tilts his head toward the door for me to follow him. He’s not covering his ears, but his features are strained. Kase sticks foam plugs into his ears.

Outside the bathroom, the sound is loud, but not like when I was standing next to it.

Cannon goes to the farthest corner of the gym, his head tipped like he’s listening carefully.

Oh, we’re testing the effectiveness. I go to the studio. I can hear the alarm, but it’s even more muffled than in the gym. I cross to where my phone sits by the speaker and tap a song to play. As the melody fills the room, the sound is dulled even more.

Cannon and I return to the bathroom, and Kase flips the alarm off.

“I can’t really hear the alarm in the studio with the music on,” I say.

Kase’s lips press into a line. He levels his stare on Cannon. “I’m glad you thought to mention what’s down here, man.” He picks up his tool bag. “Want to tell me why you happen to have a dance studio in the cabin? I know you didn’t have it built between when you met Penni and now.”

I swallow hard, surprise and trepidation creeping through my blood. The little in-home studio has become a part of our daily lives, but Cannon wouldn’t have let Kase downstairs to see it for himself if he wasn’t ready to share his background.

“I had it put in when I bought the place,” Cannon says as if it’s an ordinary request. In California, it might be. “I used to dance—ballet.”

Rare surprise fills Kase’s expression. “No shit?”

Cannon shoves his hands into his pockets, a move that’s a lot like when I push my hair behind my ear. “Believe it or not, I used to be a big deal. I had just joined the New York Ballet when I learned my mom was a horrible person and was doing horrible things at the ballet academy she ran. So, I left it all and joined the military.”

I give in to my tingly fingertip and shove my nail into my mouth while waiting for Kase’s reaction.

But he just shrugs. “Would we be able to even call them parents if they didn’t fuck us up a little bit?” Kase’s gaze jumps between us. “I have some ideas for the studio. Want to hear?”

My relieved smile is instant. Kase will probably figure out Cannon’s entire history from what he said within a half hour of walking out of here, but it’s not going to change anything. He won’t have pity in his expression when he talks to Cannon, and he won’t critique Cannon’s choices in life. And that’s what Cannon needs the most.

As I follow the guys to the studio and listen to their ideas for how to get the alert louder in the room, I’m only half present. They’re the experts. My thoughts are circling around the change in both Cannon and me. If we weren’t forced to the cabin, to a secluded place where there is no alternative but to be ourselves, would we have come this far personally?

I hate to think that bad things had to happen to get us each to a good place with ourselves. But something good is coming from my very bad situation, and it includes Cannon.

Cannon

I lunge for Penelope.She ducks to the right, slamming my hand away with her arm. She spins and kicks her leg out, aiming for my gut. I dance back. “Good, good. Your reflexes are fast. That’ll add to the surprise.”

I stop and roll my shoulders. Since Kase left yesterday, we’ve been practicing self-defense. Last night, we reviewed what we went over at her mom’s place.

“Are you ready to practice with a knife?” I go to the bottom steps of my patio, where I’d lined up the few knives I have that don’t belong in the kitchen. We’ve been outside practicing. I could’ve pulled one of the mats from the gym into the studio, but neither of us wanted to risk taking out a mirror with a foot.

She pads across the grass to stand next to me. I try to ignore how pale she is. She doesn’t like the idea of carrying a knife. She hasn’t argued, and I appreciate her calm acceptance, but I also wish we didn’t have to do this.

She hugs her arms around herself as she evaluates the blades. I have them all in holsters that can strap around her thigh or under her shirt.

None of the three have blades longer than six inches. It’s not like I’m outfitting her with a bowie knife. The hunting knife is a respectable four inches long with a lighter blade than the rest, and it curves into a wicked tip. The small dagger can peel potatoes in a pinch. And the third knife is the size of the hunting one, but it looks less menacing.

“Which one do you suggest?” Her tone is hesitant, almost like she’s stalling, but really, she doesn’t know shit about knives, and I get it.

I point to the hunting blade with the curved tip. “This is my preferred one.” I switch to the potato peeler. “You’re probably more comfortable with this one, but”—I gesture to the third knife—“the handle on this one will fit your hand better. You want to minimize the chance that your hand is going to slip down and be sliced open when you impale someone with the blade.”

She shrinks in on herself but doesn’t spin away. Her expression turns resolute, and she nods. “Okay. That one it is.”

After she straps the holster around her thigh, I take her to the grass. We work on simple skills like how to hold the weapon, the slashing motions to make, and common pitfalls. “Don’t think that if someone brings a gun to a knife battle you’re instantly outarmed. It takes time to draw a gun and aim. It takes time to pull the trigger. It can only be a second, but in that second you can close the distance, make yourself a hard target, and stick him like a Christmas ham.”

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