“Be at your place at ten,” I said sweetly as the driver got out of the car. “Gives me plenty of time to get ready for my date, which I’m excited about by the way. He’s an artist, and, in fact, was at the show Fallon put on when we first met. Too bad you didn’t stick around to see his work. It’s phenomenal.”
“Yes, too bad,” he replied, his demeanor now having reverted to that detached disinterest in me as a person.
“Yup,” I continued as the driver reached my door to help me out. “Pretty damn excited. Ditching the jeans and flannels, getting all girlied up for a romantic evening out.”
The interior light came on the moment the driver opened the door, and I could see Carrick’s expression was ever so slightly pinched. His words were curt. “I hope you have a great time.”
I swung my legs out, exiting the car using the driver’s proffered hand for assistance. When he let go of me, I turned back around, dipping to catch Carrick’s eyes. “Thanks. I’m sure I will.”
For the first time since meeting Carrick, I felt like I completely had the upper hand with him, and damned if it didn’t feel good.
I’m knocked out of my reminiscing as Titus once again smacks me on the side of the head, this time a little harder and I’m rattled.
“Your mind isn’t into this, you’re dropping your hands, and I think that’s a sign we’re done for the day,” Titus says, letting his own arms fall. He’s perfectly dry and composed while I’m dripping with sweat.
“I can do better,” I insist, shaking my head in denial.
“We’ve been going at it two hours, Finley,” Titus says with a smile. “You’re done for the day.”
“But—” I say, not feeling tired in the least. Yes, my head kept floating away, thinking about Carrick—which is incredibly frustrating by the way—but despite how grueling Titus’ paces were, I wanted to keep going.
“No buts,” he sternly interrupts me. “We’ll pick back up on Monday, and I’ll start weapons training with you.”
My eyes light up, my heart about springs from my chest, and I start to jump like a little girl. “Let’s do weapons now. And why aren’t we working out tomorrow? I don’t want to wait until Monday.”
Chuckling, Titus moves over to the cabinet that holds the weapons, and I follow as he talks. “You need a day off, and Sunday will be your day of rest.”
“Sounds biblical,” I mutter. “Carrick won’t like it.”
“I’m the boss of training,” Titus replies, shooting me a wink before opening the cupboard. He steps to the side, sweeps his arm along the rows of hanging weapons, and asks, “Which one speaks to you the most?”
I step closer, carefully running my gaze along each row. He’s affording me a longer opportunity to study them this time. Shiny knives, daggers, swords, and axes. Some plain with no adornment, while others are embedded with what I assume to be real jewels.
I pause on a wicked-looking scythe, thinking the curved blade to be as beautiful as it is deadly.
“Why does Carrick have all of these?” I ask in reverence as I continue to let my gaze roam over them. They’re all stunning.
“A hobby, I guess.” But I could tell his answer isn’t complete.
My gaze focuses on the whip, and just like when I saw it for the first time a few days ago, I feel a tug within me. Almost a feeling of recognition and I nod toward it. “That one.”
Titus lifts it from the hook and uncoils the length, letting the end trail on the floor. “I’m not surprised.”
“Really?”
His gaze comes up, those hazel eyes meeting mine. “You’re a defensive fighter, Finley. You’re thoughtful and patient before you attack. The bullwhip, while it can be an effective offensive weapon, is even better for the defensive. Do you know anything about bullwhips?”
I shake my head. Don’t know a damn thing, but it just seems suited to me.
Titus holds the handle, palm up, so I can examine it. For some reason, I inherently know not to touch it until he gives me permission. The handle is a burnished metal that has a silver base with a bit of bronze aging. It’s covered with intricate scrollwork of rose vines wrapping around the length. Near the top, the handle flares outward with more thorny vines creeping along. The very end of the handle is topped with a cube, devoid of any vines, but with a beautiful rim of silver roses raised around the entire edge.
It’s almost feminine looking but with a lethal vibe to it.
“This is simply called the handle as you can imagine,” he instructs me. With his other hand, he lifts the length I had thought was brown braided leather, but it has a silvery glint when I examine it closer. “The braided portion is called the thong, and it’s made of leather. But as you can see, this whip has been fashioned so small scales of iron are affixed to each piece of exposed braiding.”