“That could work if you're wearing heels and they're not expecting it. But you're barefoot now, and pain doesn't always stop someone who's determined. Try again."
I consider my options, then drop my weight suddenly, throwing him off balance. Blake adjusts instantly, tightening his grip to compensate. "Better. You're making it harder for them to hold you. But you're still caught. Now what?"
Panic flutters in my chest, not real panic, but muscle memory of every time I've felt trapped, powerless, at someone else's mercy. I force it down.
Think, Peyton.
"Elbow," I say. "Drive my elbow back into their ribs."
"Show me."
I hesitate for half a second, then do it in a careful and controlled way, not actually trying to hurt him.
“Harder,” Blake grunts. "You're not going to hurt me, and if this was real, you'd need to make it count."
"I don't want to?—"
"Peyton." His voice is firm. "I'm six-two, two-ten, and I've been fighting since I was twelve. You're not going to hurt me. But you might save your own life if you commit. So do it again. Harder."
I take a breath and think about Domenic reaching for me or about the men in the woods. About every time someone's made me feel small, powerless, and scared. Then I drive my elbow back with everything I have.
Blake releases me immediately and steps back. There's approval in his eyes. I hate how good it makes me feel. I barely know this man, and I am eager for his praise. “Good. That would buy you seconds. Maybe enough to run. But if they don't let go?"
“I don’t know.”
"Then you make it ugly." He moves behind me again, arms around my waist. "Drop your weight, elbow to ribs, then snap your head back. Go for the nose, the jaw, anything you can reach. Make them regret touching you. Your body belongs to you.”
His breath is warm against my neck. I can feel the solid weight of him at my back, the strength in the arms holding me, not tight enough to hurt, but enough that I understand what I'm up against.
Enough that I know I need to learn this.
I go through the motions: drop, elbow, head back, and Blake releases me each time, in a patient, methodical way.
"Again," he says.
We drill it. Over and over until the movements become automatic, until my body knows what to do before my brain catches up.
Sweat dampens my hairline. The dress, beautiful, expensive, and utterly impractical, restricts my movement. I'm suddenly furious at every gala I've attended in clothes designed to make me ornamental instead of functional. I could have fucking died.
"Break," Blake says after the tenth repetition. "Water?"
I nod, breathing hard.
He brings me a glass from the kitchen. I drink it too fast, and nearly choke.
"Easy." His hand is on my back, steadying. "You're doing well. Better than most people on their first try."
"Most people haven't had their lives threatened at a Christmas gala."
"Fair point." He's standing close again, too close, and I can see the sheen of sweat on his own skin, the way his shirt clings to muscles I've been trying very hard not to notice.
"What else?" I ask.
"What else what?"
"What else do I need to know? If someone comes at me from the front. If there's more than one. If they have a weapon."
Blake's expression darkens. "Those are different lessons. More advanced. More dangerous."
