EMBER’S POV
Where we’re going turns out to be a room in the sub level I didn’t know existed, all matted floor and low light and the specific smell of a place where people hurt each other on purpose.
It’s cold. I’m still half-asleep. I hate everything.
“So how does this—” I start, and he’s already moving.
“Stance.” He circles behind me. “Feet apart. Wider. Weight back on your heels, not your toes, or the first person who touches you puts you on the floor.” His hands land on my hips.
And my entire brain shorts out.
Because his hands are large, and they are warm even through the fabric.
They close over the curve of my hips and adjust me, tilting, squaring, and his chest comes up flush against my back, solid and unhurried, and his mouth drops to my ear.
“Centre of gravity here,” he say
