He blew out a noisy breath. “Okay, you need to use both arms. Your non-dominant arm protects your body. Grip that knife so I can’t knock it from your hand.”
I nodded.
“Focus on your footwork. Stay far enough away so I can’t get you with a sweep of my arm. You never attack first. When he makes his move, you move on his recovery.”
He motioned what he wanted from me, and I mimicked him.
“Good. Be deliberate because you may only have one chance. You want my secret? Go for places that bleed fast or supply vital organs. This is theonlyreason I’m good at this.”
My mind flashed to the executions I’d watched him perform, the lethal precision of his scalpel. He lifted my hand, poking my hairbrush into every artery or organ on his body that would result in serious injury.
Since becoming a medic, I’d focused on how the body healed rather than the ways it was prone to die. My face pinched in greater distaste with each new location he unveiled.
“If for whatever reason you can’t get to those places, go for the dominant hand. He can’t stab you if he can’t use his hands.”
I tried a couple of times, him moving my hands for me.
“Remember, your attacker doesn’t need to be skilled to hurt you. If it’s possible, you should run. Few people walk out of a knife fight.”
“Youdo.”
“I was trained to survive. I wear the scars as proof.”
My gaze lifted to the scar above his eyebrow. “I could try to disarm him.”
“You could try. Probably be the last thing you ever do.”
What?
He lifted one finger, leaving the room and returning with a permanent marker. He pulled off the lid and tossed it behind him like one would throw salt to ward away evil spirits. “Take off your shirt.”
I gaped. “Uh. What?”
“You have something under there, right? Take off your shirt.”
Hesitant, I obeyed, then stood before him in nothing but my sports bra and shorts.
Unperturbed, he didn’t glance below my eyes, and I grewimmediatelyannoyed. He held up the marker. “Try to disarm me.”
My gaze zeroed in on the black cylinder in his hand, and I leapt at it. All my energy focused on ripping the marker from his grip. Twisting and grabbing, we ended up on the floor, where I struggled until I got both my hands around his, and pried his fingers from the marker. “I did it!”
“Congratulations,” he said dryly. “Now get up.” He led me to the bathroom next door. His hands came to rest on my shoulders while we looked in the mirror. I chuckled at my reflection—striped with black ink.
“Imagine that had been a real knife, Sophia. All the black would be red and dripping. You think you could have survived?”
Ah, well, okay…
“Point taken,” I said, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
“If you can, you run. It will save your life.”
I fingered a long ink stroke over my abdomen. “How am I going to explain this at home? You made me ugly.”
He snorted and left the bathroom, muttering under his breath. “Right—”something, something“—impossible.”
Quelling the compulsion to grin, I followed him back into the room and retrieved my shirt, covering most of the ink.
“How many people see under your clothes anyway, Sophia?”
