Page 55 of His Enemy's Daughter
“No permanent damage. No going for eyes or throat.” I mirror his stance, weight balanced, ready. “Everything else is fair game. First person pinned for three seconds loses.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Stop stalling.” I flash him a smile that’s all teeth. “Unless you’re afraid of being bested by someone you’ve been treating like fragile cargo.”
That does it. His eyes flash with something between amusement and challenge, and suddenly he’s moving—fast, controlled, testing my reflexes with a grab that would immobilize most people.
I’m not most people.
I sidestep, redirecting his momentum with a technique Sabino drilled into me until it became instinct. Mauricio stumbles slightly—not enough to lose balance, but enough to show surprise—and I use the opening to move behind him, fingers finding pressure points that would disable if I pressed harder.
“Huh.” His voice carries approval. “That was—”
I don’t let him finish. Can’t afford to let him think, can’t give him time to adjust his strategy to my actual skill level. I sweep his leg, using his weight against him, and suddenly we’re both going down—controlled fall, but fall nonetheless.
We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, both scrambling for advantage. His hand catches my wrist, pinning it, but I twist free using a move that requires flexibility he clearly wasn’t expecting. My knee finds his solar plexus—not hard enough to actually hurt, just hard enough to communicate capability.
“Christ,” he gasps, and now there’s heat in his eyes that has nothing to do with combat and everything to do with the way our bodies are pressed together on the cabin floor. “Where did you learn that?”
“I told you.” I try to gain leverage, but his other hand catches my hip, thumb pressing against a nerve cluster that makes my leg momentarily weak. “Sabino was thorough in my education.”
“Thorough is an understatement.” He uses my momentary weakness to flip our positions, pinning me beneath him with his weight distributed in ways that should immobilize but somehow just make me more aware of every point of contact. “Though I’m noticing he taught you more offense than defense.”
“Defense is boring.” I arch my hips, trying to buck him off, and feel exactly how this sparring session is affecting him—hardnesspressing against my thigh that makes my breath catch. “And you’re distracted.”
“You’re the distraction.” But he doesn’t move, doesn’t use his advantage, just stares down at me with eyes gone dark with something that isn’t entirely about combat anymore. “Regina—”
I don’t let him finish. Can’t afford to let the moment shift from competition to whatever dangerous territory we’re approaching. I use a technique that involves pain compliance—nothing permanent, just enough discomfort to create an opening—and suddenly our positions reverse again.
This time when I pin him, I make it count. Knee between his shoulder blades, hand controlling his wrist at an angle that would hurt if he struggled, body weight distributed in ways that make escape difficult without potentially causing injury.
“Three seconds,” I count aloud, breathing hard. “One. Two. Three.”
I release him immediately, rolling away and standing in one fluid motion that Sabino’s trainers spent months perfecting. Mauricio stays on the floor for a moment longer, chest heaving, expression caught between impressed and aroused in ways that make heat pool low in my belly.
“You pinned me.” He finally sits up, running a hand through silver hair now mussed from our combat. “You actually pinned me.”
“I told you I could defend myself.” I offer him a hand up, trying to ignore how my own pulse is racing from adrenaline and proximity and the way he’s looking at me now—like seeing me for the first time. “Still think I’m too fragile for field operations?”
He takes my hand, but instead of just standing, he uses the leverage to pull me close—suddenly we’re chest to chest, breathing each other’s air, tension crackling between us in ways that have nothing to do with combat training.
“I think,” he says, voice rough with something that sounds like desire and respect braided together, “that I’ve been a complete idiot.”
“Elaborate.” My hands rest against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palms.
“I’ve been so focused on protecting you that I forgot to actually see you.” His thumb traces my jaw, the gesture achingly gentle after the violence we just shared. “You’re not someone who needs protecting, Regina. You’re someone who needs a partner who trusts your capabilities.”
“And do you?” The question comes out vulnerable despite my best efforts. “Trust me?”
“After watching you take me down using techniques I’ve only seen in military training?” His smile is genuine, warm. “Yeah. I trust you. And I’m sorry I’ve been treating you like you needed wrapping in bubble wrap instead of giving you room to show what you can actually do.”
The apology does something warm to my chest. “So, the Rotterdam meeting?”
“Fuck the Rotterdam meeting. We’ll go straight for Sabino’s private vault to get the ledgers.” No hesitation now, just acceptance. “This changes everything. We’ll plan and execute it together.”
“Good.” I lean closer, lips barely brushing his. “Because watching you try to be all noble and protective was getting old.”
“Was it?” His hands find my hips, pulling me flush against him, and I feel exactly how much our sparring session affected him. “Or were you enjoying making me prove my assumptions wrong?”
