"Then teach me." I set down the water glass. "I'm not fragile, Blake. Stop treating me like I'll break."
"I'm not worried about you breaking." His voice is rough. "I'm worried about what happens when you realize exactly how brutal this world is. When you learn how to hurt people and find out you're good at it."
"Maybe I want to be good at it."
"That's not what I want for you.”
The words hang between us, weighted with meaning I'm not sure how to interpret.
"Show me anyway," I say softly.
He hesitates, then nods. "Front attack. Someone comes at you, gets their hands around your throat. What do you do?"
"I—" Panic flutters again. "I don't know."
"That's why we practice." He raises his hands slowly, giving me time to prepare. "I'm going to put my hands on your throat, not tight, just enough for you to feel the position. You good with that?"
My heart's racing, but I nod.
Blake's hands come up, settle gently against my throat. Warm. Large enough to span my neck easily. The touch is careful, controlled, but I feel the potential violence in it and how easy it would be for him to squeeze, to hurt, to kill. And suddenly, I feel a rush of delicious warmth between my legs.
"Breathe," he says quietly. "I've got you. You're safe."
He doesn’t get it.
I’m not frightened.
Honestly, I don’t know what the hell this is.
I force air into my lungs.
Focus on the task, Peyton.
"Now," Blake continues. "Most people's instinct is to grab the hands, try to pull them away. That doesn't work because they're stronger than you. Instead, you're going to bring your arms up fast, between mine, and strike outward. Break the hold."
He guides my arms through the motion. Up, out, sharp and sudden.
His hands fall away.
"Good. Again."
We drill this too. Over and over until I stop hesitating, stop thinking, and just react.
Somewhere around the twentieth repetition, something shifts. Blake's hands are on my throat again, gentle, careful, and I bring my arms up to break the hold. But instead of stepping back, I step forward, into his space, close enough that our bodies are almost touching.
His eyes darken. "Peyton."
"What comes next?" I ask. "After I break the hold. What do I do then?"
"You run."
"And if I can't?"
"Then you fight."
"Show me."
There's a brief moment where neither of us moves. Where the air between us feels charged with something that has nothing to do with self-defense and everything to do with the way Blake's looking at me. And I like it. Like I'm dangerous. Like I'm a temptation. Like I'm both.
