Why would he…Oh. Kiarra’s cheeks heated. It’d been almost ten years since she’d last seen a naked man.
He cleared his throat, which made her cheeks burn hotter. She hoped he couldn’t read her mind.
“So, which type do you think Garrett suffered through?” he asked.
Garrett’s condition was a cold slap in the face. Torture, because that was what honestly happened inside the AMT, no matter the nomenclature, would do that. “I could be wrong, but his symptoms of wild fits, aversion to touch, and his response to that particular tune all point toward the psychological experiments.”
Jaxton raised an eyebrow. “What do they entail?”
Kiarra gave a sad smile. “I don’t know. But the guards often took bets on how long a prisoner would last. Usually it wasn’t long.”
She peered at Jaxton, but despite her revelations about his brother, his face remained expressionless. That was a trick Kiarra was going to have to perfect here, on the outside, too. Inside the AMT, disguising emotion was tantamount to survival, but ever since Jaxton had charged into her cell, she hadn’t been able to control her emotions like before.
Jaxton went to the door and said, “Be downstairs tomorrow at 9 a.m. We’re going to start your self-defense training right away.”
Then he left before she could reply.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, Jaxton stood at the foot of the stairs, tapping the flat top of the newel post with his hand.
Kiarra was late.
After finding little of import last night in his intelligence backlog, in addition to only nabbing four hours of sleep, his temper was short.
Last night, Taka had wanted him to push Kiarra for more information. The man had a hunch about why Kiarra had had a knife pressed to her wrist, but declined sharing the information until he was more certain. When he’d tried ordering Taka to tell him anyway, Taka had said that he was keeping quiet on Neena’s orders and Jaxton would have to take it up with her.
In their two years of working together, that had been the first time that Taka hadn’t been completely forthright with him, which irritated Jaxton all the more.
The floor creaked from above and he looked to find Kiarra standing at the top of the stairs. Gone was her gray baggy AMT uniform and in its place were tight black workout pants and a billowing purple shirt.
Like any straight, red-blooded male would, Jaxton gave her a once-over. As his gaze lingered on her shapely legs, Kiarra tugged on her shirt, clearly embarrassed. He had no idea why, as any man would love to have those beauties wrapped around his waist.
Jaxton’s hand stilled on the newel post. What the fuck had happened to his ironclad discipline? That was twice now he’d slipped in less than twelve hours. It must be his lack of sleep playing with his mind.
Jaxton motioned for Kiarra to descend the stairs, anxious to get started. Self-defense training would help clear his mind and keep the blood in his brain. “Let’s get moving, pet. I have other things to do today.”
As expected, her mouth pinched at his words. But he’d take anger any day over seeing fear in her eyes.
When she was three steps above him, Jaxton decided training was in session. He reached out, fisted her loose shirt, and pulled, ripping the fabric. She fell forward with a squeak, crashing into his chest.
But he’d expected that and caught her, gripping her around the waist with one arm and the back of her neck with his free hand.
Smashed up against him, enveloped by his arm, she appeared tiny and fragile. She needed to gain at least a stone or two before he’d clear her for any kind of field work.
The AMT’s blatant disregard for human, or rather Feiru, rights was just what he needed to ignore the softness of her breasts now pressed against his chest. “The first rule of self-defense? Avoid loose clothing. An enemy will use it to draw you close enough for an attack, a kill, or worse, to capture you. The danger usually outweighs any benefit when it comes to concealing extra weapons or explosives. In your case, don’t risk it.”
As if his voice was a trigger, Kiarra started pressing against his chest and he released her. She eased back, her cheeks flushed. She hid her annoyance quickly, but not quickly enough. He reckoned Kiarra would break her conditioning by the end of the month, if not sooner.
He continued, “While in training, I’m giving you special permission to say whatever comes to mind. Call me a bastard if it helps to channel your anger. Swear like a sailor. The control of your emotions is the only way you’ll excel in the training room or out in the field.”
She stood silent, her expression unreadable. Most people would be annoyed as hell by now with her reluctance, but Jaxton knew the basics of a successful rehabilitation. To get her to act and think without hesitation, Jaxton just needed to give her some encouragement.
He saw that the seam of her shirt was ripped on one shoulder, the band of a blue sports bra peeking out, and knew what to do. He darted out a hand, fisted her shirt again, and pulled. But as she fell, he spun her around so that her back was to his front. Before she had the chance to struggle, he tugged at her shirt until it ripped all the way down the seam and he was able to pull it away from her body. He wrapped his arm around her ribcage, but despite the chill in the air, her skin was almost feverish.
Tossing the rag aside, he murmured, “Come to your lessons prepared, which means no loose clothing. If you come tomorrow with another shirt, I’ll just rip that one too. Don’t disappoint me, pet.”
For a split second, the familiar feeling of fire danced across Kiarra’s skin before fading, leaving only anger. Destroying the first new clothes she’d had in more than a decade, in addition to taking liberties with his touch, was going too far. She wanted to teach Jaxton a lesson.