But I stay where I am, gripping the chair, because if I touch her, I might not be able to stop.
“Be however you need to be.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me. “Nathan says I talk too much.”
“Who’s Nathan?”
“My boyfriend.” She pauses, color rising in her cheeks. “Ex-boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend.”
Interesting. The correction seems important to her.
“What did Nathan do?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Assistant US Attorney. The kind who cares more about conviction rates than justice.”
“I meant, what did he do to you?”
She curls tighter. “Made me smaller. Quieter. Less.” Another pause. “Told me I was exhausting. That I analyzed everything instead of living. That I talked too much, thought too loud, took up too much space with my words.”
“So you stopped talking.”
“I stopped everything.” Her voice is barely audible. “It was easier than fighting about it.”
“He sounds like an asshole.”
“He was—precise. Surgical. Knew exactly where to cut to make it hurt without leaving visible marks.” She looks at me. “You told me to be quiet too.”
“When?”
“On the roof. When we were running. You said, ‘stay close’ and ‘silent.’”
Shit. “That was tactical. We were escaping men trying to kill you. Not the same thing.”
She nods but doesn’t uncurl. The silence stretches again. I watch her retreating further into herself, and it’s driving me insane.
This is getting dangerous. I’m noticing too much. The elegant line of her neck. The way her borrowed shirt gaps slightly at the collar, revealing her collarbone. How small she looks curled up like that, but how much strength it must take to keep all those words, all that brilliance, locked inside.
I’m getting turned on by a woman who won’t speak to me. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Twenty minutes of this torture, and I can’t take it anymore.
“Get up.”
She looks startled.
“I’m teaching you basic self-defense. You were FBI, you should have some training, but I’m not assuming anything.” I move to the center of the room. “And maybe hitting something will help. With whatever you’re processing.”
She unfolds slowly, approaching like she expects me to change my mind. Three steps forward, then she stops. Arms wrapped around herself.
“Come on,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. “I won’t hurt you.”
She takes another step. Stops again. Those golden eyes are studying me like she’s calculating the probability of harm.
“I promise, I’ll be gentle.”
Wrong words. Her eyebrows rise slightly, and there’s something in her expression—not fear. Something else. She takes two more steps, close enough that I could reach her, but not close enough for training.
“You need to be closer.”
