Breathless (The Game 3)

I frowned in confusion and sat down.

“It’s something we encourage,” he went on. “Anything to prevent unsafe play or unknown triggers—for example.”

“All right,” I replied slowly. I had no idea what he was getting at.

He leaned back in his seat, planting an elbow along the armrest and scratching his jaw. “Sweetheart, I need a good reason not to cancel our fight tonight,” he said. My eyebrows flew up. Why would he…? “I know that you’re a fantastic and highly trained fighter, but that’s not where your assertiveness stems from. Is it?”

I narrowed my eyes and replayed his words from the beginning. Encouraging others to come forth with worries… Safety first. It was Kit. He’d said something to Reese—or to one of his Doms, who’d then gone to Reese.

“I’m worried, Shay, how you would react if you lost.”

“That won’t happen,” I replied quickly. As if on autopilot.

Reese didn’t respond at first. He just watched me, and it was rapidly becoming unnerving. Something rattled in the back of my mind, and instinct told me to fight against it. To make sure whatever rattled was never unleashed from its box or whatever.

“Martial arts,” he said pensively. “I bet your father studied samurai traditions too.”

“Yes?” I cocked my head. “He was part Japanese and loved history. So?”

He shook his head. “It’s more than that. Samurai didn’t believe in defeat—in the sense that it wasn’t an option for a man or woman who wanted to die with their dignity intact. They’d rather die by their own sword. There was honor in that.” He paused. “I can’t in good conscience fight you if you’ve never considered the possibility that your opponent might be stronger than you. But more than that, I won’t fight you if you share even an ounce of that mentality, because it means you might rather put yourself at higher risk than lose. And this isn’t a matter of life and death, little one. This is a BDSM event.”

I pressed my lips together in a thin line. My dad had obviously not taught his students to die by their own sword, regardless of the type of martial arts he was teaching. It was unethical. That said…he’d taught us how to, if needed, sacrifice a little to win a lot. It meant I could put myself in a position that wasn’t entirely safe, and I might end up harmed, but harmed was better than dead. Again, it depended on the style. Martial arts were a very mixed bag of deadly combat and ceremonial pedagogies.

“If you want me to throw the fight, just say so,” I said. “I have no issues keeping shit playful.”

“Don’t play dumb, Shay,” he told me grimly. “If I wanted something playful, I would’ve asked to borrow Kit. Another thing I don’t want is to defeat you and send you into a tailspin of panic because of some grief you haven’t processed about your old man.”

I scowled out of sheer reflex, but something dropped into my stomach and spread a painful worry through me. The rattling at the back of my mind grew louder and refused to be ignored.

Was he right?

Nausea crawled up my throat, and I averted my stare to my lap.

Losing wasn’t an option. The mere idea didn’t exist in my head, and it suddenly frightened me. Because logically, I knew it should be there. It wasn’t like I was some undefeated champion of the universe. I was undefeated among the peers I’d competed and trained against in a small league of fighters; I was undefeated at a single underground club that hosted illegal matches, and it was solely because I had all this training and most of the idiots I faced in the cage came straight off the streets. Their resumés consisted of bar fights, basically.

Someone who definitely deserved to be viewed as a threat in this sense was Reese. I knew that. I was comparing my years in and out of dojos, training centers, and tournaments with someone who’d put his own combat skills to use in a dangerous field. He’d gone through the roughest training imaginable and then spent years and years as River’s personal security detail in some of the most hostile countries in the world.

What was wrong with me?

An abrupt onslaught of emotions threatened to consume me, and I could only press a hand to my mouth to prevent any noises from escaping. My vision blurred quickly, and there was no stopping the tears from spilling over.

Jesus Christ, I was a mess.

When Reese left his seat and rounded the desk, it was as if something broke in me. For the first time, I felt the switch in how he went from being Reese to being Daddy, and I kind of just threw my arms around his neck when he squatted down by my chair.

The relief at having him here was almost crippling. He would help me sort this out; I was sure of it. All I had to do was be honest and open.