Page 22 of Kings of Sherwood

“You’ll learn how to fall, how to get someone off you, and how to use your legs,” LJ says. That last part has me wanting to make a sassy remark, but I hold back. I want to see how longhekeeps it serious and professional. “Okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Good.” He nods back. “Now fall.”

“What?” I look to each side of me, puzzled.

“First thing,” he says, nodding toward the mat, “is learning how to fall.”

I blink. “Pretty sure I’ve got that part down.”

“Not the way you’ve been doing it.” He steps closer, his shadow stretching over me. “Fall. Now.”

Then he rushes me.

I land smack on the mat when he tackles me, so hard I think I’ve bruised my ass—if that’s possible.

“You planning to fall headfirst next time?” LJ says. “Because that’s the only way you could have done that worse.”

But he offers a hand down. I take it.

“You have to fall without knocking yourself out, or knocking the wind out of you. Ideally without breaking anything vital, either.”

He crouches down, then rolls back in one fluid motion, tucking his chin, slapping the mat with both palms, a loudthwapthat echoes in the space, then pops right back up.

“That’s called a breakfall. Try it.”

I can barely remember what he just did, it was so smooth and easy, but I do my best.

My best is not good.

LJ helps me up. “Chin to your chest, Princess. Slap the ground to absorb the shock. Again.”

I go again. And again. I land wrong, then wrong-er. My ponytail whips across my face and my hip’s getting as bruised as my pride. The whole time, LJ watches without pity. Notcruel, exactly, just...unmoved. Like he’s seen this a thousand times.

After a while, he doesn’t offer me a hand up anymore.

I wince, but roll to my feet on my own. My tailbone protests. My elbows are already pink with burn.

He nods. “Figure it out, Princess.”

I suck in a breath—and I go. Because for some reason, even bruised and breathless and absolutely ready to strangle him, I want to impress him more than I want to stop hurting.

This time, I don’t land too hard. Don’t hurttoomuch. LJ’s eyebrows move up. It must have been good enough, because he drops to the mat.

“Hip escape,” he says. “This one gets you out when someone’s on top of you.”

He lies flat, knees bent, then shimmies sideways in this tight, coiled motion. Smooth. Efficient. Undoubtedly much harder than it looks.

“Your turn.”

I try to mimic the movement, but it’s more of a flop than an escape. I have to laugh—my foot’s literally caught underneath me—but LJ doesn’t.

“No.” He drops to his knees beside me and places both hands on my hips—firm, patient pressure, his thumbs grazing bare skin. For a moment, I’m impressed at his restraint, and then I feel him give me a feather-light stroke on the edge of my hip.

My eyes fly to his. They’re flinty with amusement.

But it barely lasts.

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