Saved by the SEAL by Diana Gardin Page B

straight face as he stares me down.
    “Then we want the same outcome, son. Greta’s upstairs in the training room.”
    “Yes, thank you, sir.”
    I head in the direction he pointed and find a door at the end of the wide-open front room that leads to the stairs. When I open the door at the top floor, I see that the “training room” is an enormous, open space with training equipment, mats, and gym machines. It’s state-of-the-art stuff, and I realize that Night Eagle Security, Inc., is nothing to be messed with.
    Greta, previously sitting in the center of one of the gray mats, scrambles to her feet.
    Fucking hell.
    She’s wearing workout gear, but her workout gear isn’t what I expected at all. Her tight, black leggings fit her like a second skin, and I realize that her long legs and hips have curves for days. My eyes travel from her purple sneakers up her legs, to her tight, toned stomach. Which is exposed, because her top is just a sports bra. A purple-and-gray-patterned sports bra that gives me a peek of the lush tops of her breasts.
    “Damn, girl.” I stagger toward her. “What are you trying to do to me?”
    Confusion clouds her gaze. God, I love how clueless she is about her own hotness. “What? Am I not dressed right for training?”
    I blow out a frustrated breath and close my eyes. When I open them again, I’m a little more composed and better able to handle the sight of her in that outfit. “You’re fine. Sit down with me and let’s stretch. I want to tell you about what you’re going to be learning.”
    We take a few moments to limber up, and then I direct her to stand in the center of the mat. I circle her, assessing her from all angles before I stop in front of her.
    “Greta, if you have to fight someone in this business, or just as a woman out on the street, it’s likely going to be a man. A man who is bigger and stronger than you are. I have to teach you some strategies to weaken him, bring him to a level where you can effectively get him fumbling, and then how to kick his ass.”
    As I prepare to teach her the first sequence, I observe her closely. Taking in her inexperienced stance, I figure she’s never been in a fight. This is going to be her first experience with combat, and a strange sense of pride gathers in my chest.
    I get to be the one to teach her.
    “If someone comes at you from directly in front of you, like this”—I pantomime reaching an arm out toward her throat—“then you can apply a wrist peel.”
    I show her how to bring her arm up and over mine, grabbing a hold of my wrist and bending it painfully. As I retreat from her, I fold over at the waist.
    “There, now,” I explain. “Once his head is below your waist, you use your knee to strike his face as hard as you can.” I nod, and she demonstrates the motion I just explained. When I rise, I smile. “That’s it. Let’s try it again.”
    I pretend to come at her again several times with more force each time, allowing her to render me harmless as I double over and she fake-knees me in the head.
    “Now, let’s try for real. I’m going to really come at you, Greta. I want you to try to hurt me. Okay?”
    She bites her bottom lip; it’s obvious she’s suddenly nervous. She doesn’t want to try and hurt me. It’s written all over her face as her expression turns sickly. I shake my head at her.
    “Pretend it’s not me. Pretend I’m just an asshole who wants to hurt you. Dig deep, Grits, and take me out.”
    I don’t give her any more time to think; I accelerate forward. Her muscle memory kicks in, repeating the moves she just practiced moments ago. When I double over in pain from my wrist, she grips the back of my neck with both hands and jams her knee upward. She slows herself down just in time, before she actually slams it into my head.
    We both stand up straight again, breathing heavily.
    “How was that?” she asks.
    My grin is wide and warm. Looking at her sends tingles of energy through the center of my