I swung experimentally, and in one smooth motion, faster than I would have thought possible, Ian’s hand shot out and the bottle thunked into his palm in the middle of my swing. “That is not a weapon.”

“Everything’s a weapon, if you know how to use it.”

His brows rose. “You’re holding a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine, and all you want to do with it is bash someone’s head in? I think that statement clearly illustrates the source of your problems. Everything doesn’t have to be a fight, Kori.”

“And that statement clearly illustrates the source of your problems.” I enjoyed throwing his own words back at him. “You’re chin-deep in the fight, and you don’t even know it.”

“I know it,” he insisted, and suddenly that seemed possible. The rare somber look in his eyes hinted at some dark depth I hadn’t truly seen yet. “My point is that some weapons are more suited to a delicate touch than to blunt-force trauma.”

“I’m a blunt-force trauma kind of girl, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I have. And so has Tower. Part of your problem is that he knows what to expect from you. So let’s give him something new.” Ian held the bottle up, like he was modeling it for a commercial. “Think of Jake Tower as the fly, and this bottle as the honey.”

“Ooh, are we going to poison the honey?”

His brows rose higher. “No.”

“Then how is it a weapon?”

“It’s a distraction meant to outshine any report of trouble in the park. More a shield than a sword.”

“Just as well.” I sighed. “Killing Jake isn’t an option.” And it never would be. In fact, I dreaded the day of his death almost as much as I dreaded every breath he took. When Jake died, something worse would rise from his ashes to claim his kingdom.

Ian was watching me again, like maybe he’d heard more than I’d actually said. Then he handed me the bottle with a warning frown and turned back to the racks.

“Why do you know so much about wine?” I asked as he read label after label.

“My father was an enthusiast. He tried to make his own several times when I was a kid, but by the time I was old enough to share his passion, he’d admitted defeat and committed to enjoying the fruits of someone else’s labor.”

“Oh. My dad drank tequila. The kind with the worm in the bottle.” In fact, that was my clearest memory of him. “Your dad teach you about fighting, too?” I asked, and Ian chuckled.

“My dad was a pacifist. He marched in antiwar rallies before I was born.”

“And your brother was a soldier? I bet Thanksgiving was interesting at your house.”

“Yeah.” Ian glanced at me, then pulled another bottle from the rack. “Where’d you learn to fight?” he asked, and I got the impression he was trying to change the subject.

“My grandmother said I needed a healthy way to burn energy and express my natural aggression, so she enrolled me in my brother’s martial arts class when I was ten. I loved it.”

“I’d say it loved you, too,” he said, and before I could reply, something creaked from the other side of the cellar—a door swinging open—and light flooded the entire room. I froze, my heart racing. Footsteps clomped down a set of stairs I couldn’t see from our position, and my hand clenched around the neck of the bottle, now slick with nervous sweat.

I backed toward the end of the aisle, my boots silent on the floor, and Ian followed, both of us peering through the open racks at what we could see of the rest of the cellar. High stools around high tables. The dark wood bar that had been lined in wineglasses and manned by two servers at every event I’d accompanied Jake on. And the open space in the middle of a cellar full of racks, where guests would mingle, and gossip, and examine the collection surrounding them.

Jake’s wine-tasting parties were interminably dull, and I’d sometimes wished someone would try to kill him, just to bring a little excitement into the most boring room I’d ever stood in.

Now I had excitement, and I wanted nothing more than the dark, quiet cellar back.

“As you can see, there’s plenty of room for the event, and we can set up more tables,” a man said, and I recognized the slightly nasal voice of John Yard, the winery’s events coordinator.

“How are you fixed for lighting?” Another man asked as their steps echoed closer. “This is nice for ambience, but my wife will fuss if the light isn’t sufficient for people to admire her shoes.”

“That’s not a problem.”

A switch flipped somewhere and another set of lights came on. I flinched, though the cellar was still much dimmer than the park in broad daylight. This was starting to feel too familiar. An underground room. No windows. Someone standing between me and the exit. Darkness that should have been a comfort to me, made terrifying by the light source caging me.

There were huge differences between Jake’s prison cell and the wine cellar. But knowing that didn’t stop my pulse from racing or my next breaths from sliding in and out of my mouth too fast to satisfy my need for air. Logic couldn’t stop my feet from carrying me backward across the concrete, as quietly as I could move, my heart pounding, until my back hit something warm and solid, and I gasped.

A hand closed over my mouth before I could scream and another took the bottle of wine from me before I could drop it.

I clawed at the fingers over my lips and stomped on the foot between my own, and Ian sucked in a breath, so close his chin stubble caught in my hair. “Kori, relax,” he whispered, so soft I understood more than heard the words. “Don’t move, or they’ll see us.”