Thud. “Again.” You groaned, helping yourself back up on your feet, and wiping the sheen of sweat on your forehead with the back of your hand. You shot Simon a dirty glare, but he seemed totally unaffected, not a hint of exertion or fatigue on his stupid face.

When your dad had first hired Simon, you were pissed. You didn’t need a bodyguard, you weren’t the one receiving threats, but he had been adamant and unmovable on the question, so you had sucked it up. With a personal guard, you thought you were going to be okay. Wrong.

A few months after Simon had moved into the family’s estate to keep an eye on you and the property, he had started to pressure you into learning self defense. “I’m not always going to be there,” he’d said. “I might not be fast enough, so I need you to know how to protect yourself properly until I can put my hands on whatever fucker tried to touch you.”

“Again,” Simon urged, folding his large arms over his chest. “Can’t we take a break?” You asked, “we’ve been doing this for an hour!” He shook his head. When you tried to land another punch, he blocked it, and sent you to the ground again in the blink of an eye.

You screamed out in frustration, taking off your boxing gloves and throwing them on the other side of the private gym in the basement. “I’m done,” you said with finality, standing back up. “I’m fucking done with this, with you–” When you moved to walk out, Simon was on you. He easily grabbed your wrist, turning you around before he had you pinned to the wall, his forearm to your throat but applying no pressure.

“You can go when you get out of this,” he instructed, his voice low and firm. Your brain struggled to find a way, any notion of his teaching suddenly gone from your head. But then, you moved, skimming your lips against his, and took his disorientation as a chance to lock your leg around his, and with a harsh tug, he found himself on the ground. He huffed out a laugh. "That's one way to do it," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.