Treasure [h.s]

| 36 - Weak |

"Again." My voice is calm but firm, a vast difference from the panting, whining mess below me.

She doesn't dare to meet my eyes, knowing I won't give in to her pouty brat antics right now. "I've already done it five times Harry, I'm tired!" I roll my eyes at her complaining and stand her back up straight.

"Make me stop then." I spin her around and trap her back against my chest in one swift movement. "Show me that you can defend yourself."

"Let go of me," she seethes, wiggling in my firm hold.

One that I barely have to close my fingers around her nimble wrists to maintain.

"Ow!" she winces. My hands immediately drop from her wrists and move to her shoulders to spin her so she's facing me. She keeps her focus down, cradling her limp hand in the other with a pout.

"Shit, baby. I'm sorry! I didn't realize I was holding you that–"

Her knee makes contact with my balls and I topple over, the entirety of my lung capacity leaving in a pained groan as I hit the training mat.

And then the shadow of my weak-limbed heathen–I mean Treasure, stands over me, with the same fed-up scowl she's had on her face for the last five days that I've been forcing her to come train with me.

"The only thing more helpless than a woman with no muscle..." She crouches, holding my jaw in her tiny hand, "Is a man who only thinks with his dick." And as if the fucker truly has a mind of its own, blood rushes straight to my groin.

My head is forcefully pushed back to the ground before Brinna stomps off to the bar for water and ice. This last week has been... a challenge to say the very least.

Trying to teach a woman with the attitude of a bull in a China shop how to properly defend herself is like, well, taming a bull in a China shop. Doesn't fucking work.

However, when said bull finally snaps, so does every intricate piece of antique, gold-rimmed pottery.

Which is exactly why I've been less than nice, less than coddling, and less than kiss-ass to my sweet little fiery Bandit. She needs a push. She needs to release that anger and tension, and if I have to bruise her ego a little for her to stab me with a knife properly, that's just what I'll do.

Except the girl is pure rage. All bark, no bite. Just a wee little chihuahua. And that wouldn't be a problem if I could scoop her up and carry her in a little purse like one of those fucking ankle biters, but alas, she told me no when I offered.