Creed was in the barn, just as she would’ve suspected. He was laying on the bench press still set up with Alik’s 950lbs of weight and was pressing the barbell up and down with ease. Apparently, too much ease because he looked frustrated when he replaced the bar and stood abruptly to head toward the Wing Chun wooden dummy.
Alik and Cole made it themselves. The piece was used in conditioning for a specialized Chinese martial arts—a version of Kung Fu the boys were studying these days. It was known as a “warrior’s style.” Creed took to the dummy like he’d been training on it for years. His form was perfect; she couldn’t help but watch with admiration.
His weight was shifted to his back leg leaving his front leg loose and movable. His strikes were exacting; not a movement wasted. He attacked with calculating velocity and moved so fast he was a blur. This method of martial arts wasn’t for the faint of heart. Wing Chun was based on the idea that you wouldn’t bother blocking any offensive attacks from opponents. Instead, all energies and focus were on your attack.
Forget blocking, just strike. Deflect and strike.
Strike. Strike.
Strike hard and fast and furious and don’t back down, ever.
Strikes, speed, balance, footwork and timing—that was the core of Wing Chun. It wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Watching Creed move was awe inspiring. He had the speed of a viper with the determination and power to back it up. He was beautiful.
Beautiful and deadly.
Meg watched him for at least fifteen minutes before he stopped, breathing hard as he draped his arms across one of the wooden dummy’s “arms,” holding his forehead against the cool wood.
Unable to keep her silence, she blurted, “That was beautiful.”
Creed’s breathing paused, as though he held his breath at the sound of her voice, before resuming its controlled breaths. He shifted his position so his blue eyes looked over his arm to watch her. His gaze was so intense; she shifted from one foot to the other, feeling awkward as the sole object of his focus. The way he watched her made her feel as though maybe he did remember more than he let on.
“Wing Chun. Do you study it?” he asked, breaking his intense observation of her.
Meg shook her head slowly and found her voice, “Not really. Alik and Cole have gotten into it lately, but I haven’t...um…learned it yet.”
“Come here.” The intensity of his gaze didn’t let up, if anything, it increased as he held perfectly still waiting for her to respond to his request.
“I don’t know if we have time for a lesson,” she stammered nervously. “Everyone’s back in the house trying to figure out a plan.”
“There’s always time for a lesson,” he assured—blue eyes unrelenting in their gaze.
Meg watched him warily as she walked toward him, stopping two feet away.
His breathing had slowed to a more normal pace, though she could sense his heart beating powerfully in his wide chest. She couldn’t stop herself from staring into his eyes. Something about them had her locked, trapped, pinned and she had the strangest feeling that the whole building could blow up around them and not break her gaze from his eyes.
He nodded once, respecting her courage to step forward and repositioned himself behind her.
His voice came at a low rumble in her ear when he spoke. “I’m going to have to touch you to help position your body. Is that okay?”
Not able to find her voice at first Meg cleared her throat. “Yes.” She tried to sound nonchalant. Her voice quivered instead.
She felt his warm hands wrap around her waist from behind and settle on her hips. She wanted so badly to step back into his warm arms, but forced herself to move where he nudged. “Wing Chun is said to have originated when a girl was being forced to marry a man she didn’t love. A deal was offered by the girl’s father to her unwanted suitor. If she could defeat him in hand-to-hand combat, she wouldn’t have to marry him. He agreed.
“She went away to learn from monks how to fight. They designed a specific style for her. It held all the power and effectiveness of the known methods, but was practiced with the heart of a warrior. There is no backing down. There is no defeat. Deflect and strike with powerful, efficient movements. That was the core of the style designed for her.”
As he spoke he wrapped his body around her from behind, stretching his long arms along hers to hold her hands and move her like their limbs were tied at every joint. She felt the heat pouring from him, the warmth of his breath on her cheek as he spoke. It never even occurred to her to step out of his arms.