Roman had never been tortured. But he’d gone through days at Ranger School that had felt like descending the circles of hell, a mind-and-body smashing rotation of fire drills, battle drills, and PTing at a pace that made him hurl, only to sleep a few hours, wake up, and start it all over again.
The next two days watching over Cenobia kind of felt like Ranger School. He saw her in every state of dress except naked: in her pinup-girl corporate wear, barefoot, even in loungewear when he’d gone down for coffee too early. He’d gotten one look at the cream sweater slipping off her shoulder and walked into a doorjamb. He was an arm’s length away from her most of the time and a room’s length away always, which meant he was constantly fighting the urge to pull her into his lap. He watched her power with his jaw dropped and worried about her vulnerability with fingers that ached to grab and shove her behind him.
His clothes and his hands smelled like honeysuckle. He was going to fire the tailor he’d been with for five years, who’d insisted on the slim cut of Roman’s pants.
The only relief was that they were both preoccupied with work and surrounded by observant eyes from sunup to past midnight. Cenobia was relentlessly cementing the final details of La Primera’s launch, monitoring the cobot repairs, shoring up support for her car inside and outside the company, and quietly lobbying for Vasquez’s removal with influential members of the board, who would need to vote to fire him. Roman had brought in additional Sheppard Security team members to assist with the sabotage investigation and monitor Hernán Rodriguez, the Las Luces Oscuras liaison. He’d not mentioned again the need to sequester her, but he’d worked on a couple of plans with Glori in case it was abruptly necessary.
Their late-night rides home, when Cenobia curled her bare toes together and relaxed her hairstyle and filled the car with her soft, sweet, tortuous scent, were full of work and security updates.
It was of course right when Roman was getting comfortable with the torture that, early in the evening on the third day, Cenobia came out of her office dressed in body-skimming black Lycra capris and a red crop tank that showed just a slice of skin around her torso. Roman pulled his computer onto his lap.
“How upset would you be if I left without you?” she asked, tugging her ponytail out from the fitted workout jacket she’d slipped on.
“Very.”
“I figured as much.” She tossed a bag at him that her driver had sat on Paloma’s desk minutes earlier. She’d sent her assistant home early after a lot of late nights. “Be ready to go in ten.”
When he unzipped and looked in the bag, he saw it was his workout T-shirt, a pair of track pants, and his sneakers.
She was walking back to her office with a little sauce to her hips. “Cenobia,” he said, standing and taking out his earpiece. “Come here.”
Cenobia paused, looked over her shoulder at him. They were alone. She turned around and came back. Slowly.
He beckoned with one finger for her to step closer.
“Are we going to where you sneak off to?” he asked.
She nodded, her eyes deep brown and watchful.
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
“With you, it is.”
Looking down at her thickly lashed cat eyes, her smooth forehead, her wide chin, and soft mauve lips was like looking at a plate of his favorite tapas and trying to decide which one he was going to enjoy first.
“So, if I don’t feel it’s safe, you’re gonna listen to me?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding solemnly, and for a moment, Roman felt the difference of the eight years between them. “I will listen to you.”
He was glad she wasn’t trying to go off on her own. He was honored she’d invited him. He felt a puffed-up pride that she was bringing him where she’d avoided taking everyone else.
He also knew Cenobia Trujillo was an excellent actress when faced with men standing in her way. She was going to do exactly what she wanted.
Roman followed Cenobia through a warren of narrow callejones, eating the roll that a panadería owner had given them as they’d walked through her shop to reach the alleyway behind it. Two of his team members were monitoring the bakery from down the street. Her people had stayed with the three-car caravan that had parked blocks away—they still hadn’t ruled out a leak of information coming from the inside, and whatever this secret was, it was too precious for Cenobia to risk.
Roman took his cues from her silence and kept his questions for later.
After enough twist and turns that if she’d bolted, Roman would have been hopelessly lost, they entered the back door of a nondescript, concrete building. An automated bell signaled their entrance and Roman noted the small security camera in the corner. She led him down a narrow flight of dusty stairs into a tiny alcove with a large, steel door. Cenobia raised her face to another security camera and pointed at Roman to do the same.
When they did, the door clicked and they pushed through. A round woman in a grey sweatsuit greeted them.
“Tía Elena,” Cenobia said, giving the woman a hug. “Is this okay?”
The woman waved away Cenobia’s concern. “¿Hablas en serio?” she asked in Spanish. “Half of them are in there checking their lipstick.”
When they walked into the next room, Roman saw that a few women going through warm-up exercises near the wall of mirrors did have bright lips. The concrete walls were spray painted with pink-and-red Venus signs and raised fists, and a couple of large metal cabinets were lined up against the back along with a stack of mats and several punch dummies.
As Cenobia took off her jacket and crossed to the other women, Tía Elena kindly but firmly told Roman to stay at the back of the room and only speak if spoken to.
He noted the two small cameras focused on the room, another steel door, the quality of the wood flooring—probably foam backed to absorb shock—and the well-fitted mirror in the row of them that could be pressed and opened. An emergency exit?
“Ay qué sabroso está,” floated toward him and he glanced to see Cenobia and two women checking him out as they warmed up. One full-figured woman was young and looking at him dreamily. The other woman—with a wiry strong body and coal-black hair pulled back—was stretching her hamstrings.
“He has cold eyes,” she said, with no effort to lower her voice.
He kept his eyes tracking around the room, making sure not to stall on any one thing or person. Worked hard not to stare as Cenobia began stretching her shoulders. He’d felt it when he’d held her biceps or she’d pressed against him, but he could see it now. Cenobia was strong with useful, purposeful muscles.
After touching her palms flat to the floor then high-kneeing in place, Cenobia walked to the front of the room, her back to the mirrors, as the ten women formed a line facing her. Tía Elena handed her a large pink conch shell that filled Cenobia’s hands, then joined the line at one end.
Cenobia briefly met Roman’s eyes over all of their heads. For the first time, he saw an edge of worry.
She raised the conch shell to her lips and blew, sounding a loud primal horn that would have loosened the bladders of ancient enemies. The women crossed their arms over their chest, their hands in fists. When the bellow of the shell died away, Cenobia chanted with the other women. “Permanecemos. Peleamos. Pero más importante, vivimos. ¡Ni una más!”
We stand.
We fight.
But most importantly,
We live.
Not one more!
They hit their chests with their fists, then bowed.
Roman felt like they’d pounded his chest. All the air was knocked out of him. A shelter for women, he’d assumed. Services and safety for battered women, he’d figured. But he was beginning to suspect this was something more.
Something for Cenobia to hide and show only to him.
Cenobia set the shell aside and took a ready stance as the women spread themselves out.
Then the woman he’d come to Mexico to protect began leading her sisters through a series of open-hand strikes, knee and toe groin kicks, 360 defensive swipes, and downward side-fist punches. Only death could have made Roman immune to her glowing skin, her clenching muscles, her red cropped tank, the swish of her long black ponytail, but he worked to watch and not stare, worked to admire form and not covet shape. Cenobia was training the women in Krav Maga, a fighting system that would allow them defend themselves regardless of their size or fitness. Roman was a fan of it because it encouraged the defender to go for the nuts.
Their sharp exhales of breath—a harsh “shh” of purpose with each punch—filled the room.
Once they were sweating, Cenobia called for everyone to pair up and grab a pad. The women kicked and punched the pad, grunting together, smiling when a blow forced their opponent back in surprise, and Cenobia circled the room checking technique. She stopped the young woman, who had a bad habit of connecting her with toes. “Josefina, you’re going to break something if you kick like that,” she said, patting the top of the woman’s laces. “Remember to kick with this part of the foot. It’s stronger and will hurt more.”
She circled the room one more time before she said, “Today, I’m introducing a different model for a defensive strike. Tía Elena is going to—” She stopped. Then she focused on Roman.
“Un momentito,” she told the group.
She approached him where he stood at the back of the room. “Sometimes I bring in martial arts experts to act as attackers,” she said. “It gives the women a chance to experience the emotions they’ll feel when they have to defend themselves in real life.”
Roman was already nodding. He did the same for clients he trained in self-defense; they needed to practice reacting during the rush of fear and fury. He’d also noted that she’d said “when” they have to defend themselves. Not “if.”
“Would you like to be our expert today?”
“Of course.”
“There are pads that should fit you,” she said, motioning toward a supply locker. Sweat gleamed on her smooth forehead. “Suit up and—”
“If it’s okay, I’ll go without for the demonstration,” he said quietly.
Sans pads was the best way to see where strikes would have the most impact.
She frowned. “I want to show them the hits—”
“That’s fine,” he said, slipping his hands into his track pants. He was honored to be invited into a space not meant for him. He wanted to give her something in return. “Just pull your punches. I trust you.”
She met his eyes, then gave a quick nod.
They walked toward the front of the room. As he moved in front of the women, he was conscious of his height, his width, his power to hurt. He relaxed his shoulders, kept his big hands at his sides, made sure his face was howdy-y’all friendly.
“We know one of the most common attacks against women is the two-handed front choke hold,” she said, turning to the group. “Today we’re going to practice an extended defense if you’re dealing with an opponent who won’t go down.”
She faced Roman expectantly.
Two-handed front choke hold. He looked at her dark delicate neck, exposed by her high ponytail and the V of her tank.
This, instantly, became a different beast than the close-combat training he’d performed with soldiers, staff, and clients. Cenobia waited and the women watched. They trusted that she knew what she was doing and believed that she could teach them to protect themselves.
You would have beggared a kingdom instead of trusting me to know my capabilities and limits, she’d said when they’d argued about the loan.
He had no doubt in her towering capabilities.
The room was quiet as Roman put his huge hands around her throat. He could feel the thin hot skin against his calluses. He had a flash of cradling her face while he begged her to understand the temptation of her name.
“What we want to prevent is being backed up against a surface,” she told the women.
She looked at Roman again, then smiled as she sensed his discomfort. “I trust you, too,” she murmured.
He gently maneuvered her back against the mirrors.
“We eliminate many options for movement when we’re backed up,” she said, showing her inability to get the 180-swing of her arm or rearing back strength of her leg. “You have six to ten seconds before the constriction of blood flow will make you pass out.”
She put her hands over his, and pushed with her body, moving them back to where they started.
It suddenly felt like dancing.
“So, we use his forward momentum to break his hold.”
Cenobia stared at him with an intensity that he recognized. This was how he worked with his squad and his team, communicating with eyes and expressions, putting absolute faith in each other’s skills.
With a quick nod from her, he squeezed infinitesimally harder and pushed her backward.
Cenobia caught herself on her left leg, slapped her left hand over both of his wrists, raised her right arm high in the air, and then turned a sharp rotation to the left so his own momentum shoved his hands off her throat. She then caught his arms, bringing his face closer, and mimed two elbow strikes before actually connecting with his chin and snapping it with a light hammer strike that didn’t hurt but jammed his jaw up. Turning her body forward, she faked two knee-raises to the groin before applying light punches, her fists tapping him backwards, until she had enough distance to turn and run.
He was so glad she was training them to run. Yes, they would stand and, yes, they would fight. But they would live by getting away from the people that threatened them.
At the door, Cenobia spun around, huffing. Roman put his hands on his thighs, breathing hard, staring at her. Adrenaline had his heart racing.
She met his eyes. Then her wide chin went up, and she gave him a slow, warm smile.
“Dale,” the wiry woman said, as the other women began to hoot and clap. “You gave it to him good.”
He felt a rush of heat like the high-end air conditioning had died in her deceptively low-rent building.
Her dark eyes dilated and became darker.
He couldn’t hold it back any longer. The desire that began as a single drop during a curious Internet search when he’d asked for the loan, then became a worsening rain shower over the years of guilty googling and a deluge in the last ten days, finally drowned him. In front of these cheering warrior women, a roomful of survivors who expected him to keep her safe, Roman could no longer hide how fiercely he wanted Cenobia Trujillo.