I didn't want him to fight. He had no reason to learn. He was tricky enough to get out of most situations, and the rest…I'd take care of. But, I wouldn't have my boy feeling helpless—not in any situation.
I had Jazz change into something he could move more freely in before taking him down to the gym. Before I had Jazz to fill my hours, I spent them all in the gym. Since his arrival, I hadn't been once, but that familiar smell greeted me. Rubber from the mats, disinfectant, metal, and lingering sweat. The smell was as comforting to me as baked apple pie was to others.
"Wow," Jazz breathed, taking in the brightly lit space. "This place is…"
We were alphas accustomed to lives as mercenaries. Wild animals attempting to live in a domestic world. If the guys didn't have the weights and bags to get out their aggressions, we'd have a shitload more bruises and scrapes between us.
Still, I understood his amazement. We'd renovated some of the rooms, had made a few of them more than livable, but the gym, we'd completely redone. The wall along the entrance held windows where you could watch your form. There were free weights, bars, punching bags, an area for target practice, assault dummies, and several cardio machines, though we tended to use those less frequently.
The fluorescent lights lined the ceiling overhead, casting every inch of the room with a bright, artificial glow. The flooring was made of enforced rubber to soften things falling without a bounce. Everything was new—or had been when we'd bought it. From this room, it was easy to forget the damp, musty disrepair the rest of the place was in.
"You've been holding out, Knox. This place is awesome." His warm brown eyes took in every surface.
I preened like a peacock until I remembered what Hallie had said. If I could make one room look like this, why couldn't I do the same with the whole damn place? Then, no one would see an old haunted party spot but a—
A what? A home? My mind sneered that word with contempt. We'd had a home and had lost it. We'd failed to protect the only people in the world who had counted on us. "To get started, hop on the treadmill."
Jazz looked dubiously from me to the treadmill. "But you're supposed to be teaching me how not to freeze."
"That's an instinct thing. Everyone knows fight or flight, but in some cases, freezing is the thing that keeps you safe. It makes sense that you freeze. Animals that can hide, make themselves look like something else. Staying in one place is the thing that ensures your safety. But you can train yourself. Change your instinct."
I lifted him by the biceps and carried him to the treadmill. His curls bounced softly with each step. "Before we do any of that, you need to warm up. Five minutes, light jog. You've run from me enough times I know you can do that much."
I tapped the buttons to get the belt started, and Jazz pumped his legs to keep up. "Run? More like sauntered," he said under his breath.
He'd spent much of the previous five years running from dangerous people. And he was really good at it. It made sense that he took pride in that. What else did he have?
"Saunter for five minutes, then." I smacked his butt, and he yelped, turning his head to hide his smile. He'd must've forgotten there were nothing but mirrors in front of him.
When the five minutes were up, he joined me in the sparring square. The mats were thicker in this area, offering more impact absorption. It still hurt to get laid out on your ass, but it was better than nothing—or nursing constant concussions and broken limbs.
Immediately, Jazz brought up his fists like he was going to fight me. His slim arms were wobbly, and when I pushed his shoulders, he tripped to the side.
"Hey, that's pushing, not fighting."
I attempted to hide my smirk.
"You're making fun of me," Jazz growled, wiggling his fingers. On anyone else, the gesture wouldn't be menacing, but on Jazz it was damn near a threat.
I eyed his fingers. I'd yet to bring up his stunt with the fake pictures. "I'm not making fun of you. You're cute, that's all."
"Oh great," he huffed, sending locks of hair flying from his forehead. "Now you're infantilizing me. Awesome."
"No to that too. You're cute, deal with it." I just barely stopped myself from ruffling his hair, and only because the way he looked at me now, I'd likely lose a finger if I tried. "Now stop trying to distract me. What's your goal in a fight?"
Jazz brought his fists up again. "To hurt the other person."
I reached out, pushing him over from the other side. "Wrong."
"Then what?" Jazz growled as he stumbled for his footing.
"To not die. That's your only goal. And you get there by removing yourself from the situation, neutralizing the threat, or staying alive until help can arrive. If you can run, Jazz, you will always run. Say that to me right now. I need to hear it."
He frowned and brought his hands up to hang on his hips. "You want me to confess to being a coward?"
I grabbed him, crushing him against my chest. Picturing Jazz in a situation where he needed to defend himself made my chest feel like a live grenade, the pin pulled, waiting to explode. He'd started as collateral, but if I was being honest, he'd turned into more than that the moment he escaped our clutches the first time. We didn't even get a good look at him the first time. His hair had been a flash of red, driving by in a car he'd maneuvered possession of. "That doesn't make you a coward. It makes you alive, which is the whole fucking point."
Forcing my arms to relax, I let him stand back on his own two feet.
"Stance a little more than shoulder width." I kicked his feet apart. "Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. You're light, you're springy. You can remain in one spot or move, but if you put your weight on your heels—" I motioned for him to do just that, pushing softly when he did. "You're unsteady. You have less control, and you will fall. Got it?"
Jazz nodded, soaking in my instruction like a sponge. "Got it. Heels bad, balls good." He inhaled sharply, finding my eyes. "You know what I mean."
We worked on Jazz's stance for thirty more minutes, practicing how to use his body weight as a weapon. With his frame, he wouldn't be the strongest man in a fight and needed to know how to use more than muscles.
He was eager to learn and took instruction well, but his body wasn't used to fighting, so when his thighs began to tremble, I put a pin in it for the day.
"I hardly learned anything," Jazz whined as I pulled him down to the mat beside me to stretch.
"You learned enough for the day." I did ruffle his hair then.
He didn't take my fingers, but he scowled, blasting a curl up off his face. "You didn't even show me a knife."
My heart stuttered. I wanted to promise Jazz he'd never see a weapon brandished towards him in violence again, that I'd be there to protect him. But I had no way of knowing where our investigation would take us, the leads we'd have to follow, and the types of places we'd have to go. With my own future so uncertain, how could I make promises to anyone else?
"This was only the first day. We can come back every day and do a little. I should be training more than I am anyway."
That pacified him enough that he sighed, letting out the air that had kept his shoulders tense. He flopped back on the mat, staring up at the lights while his hair fanned out around his head. It wasn't exactly a stretch, but I'd allow it since it had been a lighter day. "How did you learn all of this?" he asked, his eyes reflected the bulbs overhead. "Or did you come out of the womb fighting?" He laughed and rolled over to look at me. "Probably punched the doctor on the way out."