I move. Fast.
I wrap my right arm around her neck. I cinch it tight. Not crushing, but enough to cut the air. Enough to trigger the lizard-brain panic.
She freezes against me. Her whole body goes rigid. Her hands fly up to claw at my arm.
“Wrong,” I whisper in her ear. “Don’t fight the arm. You can’t move it.”
She’s struggling. Gasping. The panic is setting in.
“Drop your weight,” I say. My mouth is against her hair. Her scent—sleep and shampoo and terror—fills my lungs. “Become heavy. Dead weight.”
She drops. Her knees buckle.
It throws me off balance.
“Good. Now. Elbow. Backward. Hard.”
She drives her elbow back. It hits my chest plate. Weak.
“Harder!” I tighten the grip.
She drives it back again. A sharp, vicious strike.
It connects.
I let go. She spins away, coughing, hands on her knees.
“You okay?” I ask.
She waves a hand. Sucks in air.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
She straightens. Her face is flushed. Her eyes are bright. “Do it again.”
“Cassie—”
“Do it again. I hesitated.”
I look at her. The fear is there, but the determination is louder.
“Okay.”
I grab her again.
This time, she doesn’t freeze. She drops instantly. She throws the elbow. Then she twists.
We grapple.
It’s not clean. It’s messy and desperate. My arm is around her waist now, pinning her arms. She’s fighting, kicking back at my shins.
I drive her backward. She trips on a root.
We go down.
I land on top of her. The impact knocks the wind out of both of us.
