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Warm fingers slide into mine.

“Alexei.”

I turn.

Maggie stands next to me, the morning sun bringing out the freckles across her nose. Her eyes tell me she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“She's gonna be just fine.”

I look back toward the school entrance. I hope Maggie is right. Hope, however, has never been a security strategy.

By eleven o'clock, I’ve read the same quarterly report three times and absorbed none of it.

Numbers blur across my computer screen. Cargo manifests, acquisition proposals, profit projections. Under normal circumstances, I would have reviewed and signed everything within an hour. Today, I have spent nearly two hours staring at the same documents.

I find myself looking out over Savannah Harbor. Container ships move steadily across the water below while cranes load cargo, and trucks move in and out of the distribution yard. Black Tide continues operating exactly as it should. I’m the only part of the company not functioning properly.

The image of Ivy walking through those school doors has replayed in my mind all morning. Logically, I know she’s safe. Luka receives updates every thirty minutes. Agent Ramirez remains inside the school. Two men watch the perimeter, and another vehicle sits near the dance academy. Logic changes nothing.

A knock sounds against my office door before Luka steps inside without waiting for permission, which means he already knows I haven’t accomplished anything productive during the past hour.

“You haven’t signed a single document since I arrived forty minutes ago,” he says, closing the door behind him.

I lean back in my chair and set my pen aside. “You appear unusually observant today.”

“You appear distracted,” Luka replies.

I stay silent.

Luka watches me before nodding toward the hallway. “The gym is empty.”

I close the file on my desk and rise from my chair. “Lead the way.”

Five minutes later, Luka and I enter the private training facility located on the executive level of Black Tide headquarters. We stop in the adjoining locker room, where I exchange my suit jacket, dress shirt, and slacks for black training pants and a fitted T-shirt. By the time we step onto the gym floor, some of the tension riding beneath my skin has already begun demanding an outlet.

The space occupies nearly half the floor. Heavy bags line one wall while free weights fill another. A full-size mat area stretches across the center beneath industrial lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the harbor, though neither of us pays attention to the view.

Luka crosses toward the weapons cabinet. “Escrima?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He tosses me a pair of rattan sticks. I catch them easily, the familiar texture fitting into my palms like muscle memory. We move toward the center mat, neither of us bothering with protective gear.

Luka attacks first.

The crack of rattan striking rattan echoes through the gym as he drives a strike toward my shoulder. I pivot, deflecting the blow before countering toward his ribs. Luka blocks, rotates, and attacks again. I step inside his range, forcing him backward across the mat.

Wood collides against wood in rapid succession. Strike. Block. Counter.

Our footwork carries us through tight circles, years of training allowing movement without conscious thought. Forward pressure. Retreat. Angles. Distance. Luka has trained beside me for nearly fifteen years. He knows every weakness in my form, and I know his.

He feints high.

I ignore it.

The second strike comes low toward my knee exactly as expected. I evade it and retaliate with enough force to jar his grip.

“Better,” Luka mutters.