Page 58 of Vow Of Fire

“The eyes first,” I said, motioning to hers. “The most reliable target on the body. Doesn’t matter how big he is, if you drive your thumb into the socket hard enough, his hands come off you fast. Not because he chooses to, but because his nervous system shuts down.”

“I understand,” she said, even though she looked faintly nauseated by what I was saying.

“Good. Now, show me.”

Her brows pulled together. “Show you how to gouge your eyes out?”

I stepped closer. “Put your fingers on my temple. Then trace my socket with your thumb. Feel where it gives. I need to know you can put your hand on a man’s face and find his eyes in the dark. That’s the drill.”

She hesitated like she didn’t want to touch me. I could tell by the blush that tainted her cheeks she was still embarrassed by what had happened last night.

Good. That had been my intention.

Last night had been a reminder, a way to show her that she shouldn’t take me for a fool. That she couldn’t play me.

But we weren’t playing now. This was survival.

“Ophelia,” I said, more softly.

Something in my voice made her move and she lifted her hand to my face. Her fingertips brushed my temple. Her touch was soft, almost tender.

“Now close your eyes.”

Her lids fluttered shut as her thumb traced the ridge beneath my brow, following the curve of bone. She went slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid of what she might find.

The proximity gave me a chance to study her up close. She had a pert little turned-up nose with the faintest smattering of freckles that I hadn’t noticed before. Her forehead was lined with concentration, like she was trying to memorize me instead of locating weak spots. I didn’t hate it, and I had to resist the urge to lean into her touch.

“Okay, enough,” I said, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

She dropped her hand, like she’d been caught touching something she shouldn’t.

I stepped back on the pretext of squaring my own stance. Really, I just needed a moment to catch my breath.

I’d taken every kind of hit a man could survive. Broken ribs. Split teeth. Knife wounds. But one soft touch from this copper-haired vixen and suddenly I couldn’t remember how to breathe.

When I faced her again, my voice came out rougher than before. “Throat next.”

Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then lower, to my Adam’s apple.

“You use what is called a knife hand strike,” I said. “Not a fist.” I lifted my hand between us, fingers straight and tight together. “Lock these. Keep the thumb tucked or you’ll break it on impact.”

She mirrored me carefully.

I stepped behind her before I thought too hard about it and caught her wrist, turning her hand over. “Straighter.”

I ran a finger along the edge of her palm. “This is the weapon. Not there—” I tapped the center lightly— “here.”

She nodded and adjusted her stance, her butt nudging my groin. It felt so damn good I wanted to grab her hips and pull her closer.

“You strike with the bone along the outside edge,” I explained, guiding her hand through the air in a cutting motion. “Horizontal. Fast. And aim through the target.”

She frowned. “Through?”

“Yeah. You’re not trying to hit him. You’re trying to slice through him like a knife through butter.”

She turned her head to glance over her shoulder at me and my jaw brushed her cheek. Damn, she felt good. So fucking soft.

“Done right,” I continued, my mouth close to her ear, “the trachea collapses. He stops thinking about hurting you and starts thinking about breathing.”