Page 14 of Protected

When I’ve finished, I drink the water he hands me.

Finally finished with these duties, I ask, “Can you leave me alone now?”

He shakes his head and gestures to the right. I know exactly what he means. He wants us to practice self-defense like we did yesterday.

“I was going to get some rest,” I tell him.

He narrows his eyes and gestures more emphatically.

I could argue. Ishouldargue. This man is obnoxiously bossy, and he has no right to act that way with me.

I’m my own person. I’m the one who decides what I do with my break. Not him.

But I’m tired. And I’ve been weirdly upset since that vulnerable conversation with Burgundy this morning. I simply don’t have the energy to argue with him.

Maybe if we do a short round of self-defense training, he’ll let me rest after that.

So I relent, rolling my eyes and mumbling complaints to myself as I follow him away from the others.

We end up in a good spot. I’m not sure how he found it so quickly. It’s surrounded by trees and thus isolated, but it’s shady, the grass is thick, and the dirt is soft.

I put down my water bottle and face him, waiting for him to tell me what to do.

He has a towel draped around his neck. He pulls it off, winds it around his hands, and holds them up.

When I just stare, he makes some grumpy nods toward his hands.

He wants me to punch him there—as if he were wearing boxing gloves or holding a punching bag.

Obediently I aim a few punches at the wrapped towel.

He makes a sound in his throat, which surprises me. It’s soft and guttural but an actual sound. His expression tightens in frustration as he gestures with his head back at his hands.

He’s getting annoyed. He wants me to hit him harder.

Sighing, I try. But the impact on my knuckles doesn’tfeel great. And he’s so much bigger than me. I’m around a foot shorter and half as broad as he is. My punches aren’t going to have any sort of impact.

He keeps urging me to try harder for about five minutes until he makes another throaty sound and unwraps his hands.

Hopeful that he’s giving up for today, I say, “I’m sorry I’m not any stronger. But what the hell do you expect from me? You’re like a mountain compared to me.”

He frowns fiercely and pats one of his shoulders with his opposite hand.

I stare, my mouth falling open.

He pats again. More insistently.

“I’m not going to punch your shoulder like that! I might be small, but I could still bruise you.”

Through a series of gestures and grimaces, he soundlessly yells at me. Ordering me to punch him in his shoulder.

After a minute, I’m so frustrated and annoyed that I do it. I aim a sharp, upward jab at his shoulder. It’s harder than I expected myself to be capable of. It hurts my knuckles so much I gasp and jerk backward, but it doesn’t move him at all.

He nods approvingly and pats his shoulder again.

I rub my knuckles, checking to see if they’re damaged.

He takes my wrist and straightens my fingers, moving my arm so that I’m connecting his shoulder with the heel of my hand. Then he drops my wrist and waves toward his shoulder again.

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