Because as much as I was strong for a woman, I was not ‘pull a full-grown man twice my size up onto a boat’ strong.
But boats had those life preservers. With that, I could keep him afloat as I tried to, I don’t know, get him into a liferaft. Or call for help.
By the time I went down the steps, I was certain that was what my night was going to entail: a sea rescue, a possible head injury.
My mind sharpened, looking around for anything that I could use for either situation as another minute likely ticked away with no sign of Caymen.
But as I was moving into the kitchen, the door flung open.
All I could think wasThank God. He was alright. He wasn’t hurt or overboard. He was just being extra thorough, and nowhe was back. We could climb back in bed and laugh about his paranoia and my disaster scenarios.
I was so consumed with those thoughts that I didn’t realize the man moving inside was slightly too tall and not nearly wide enough.
Because Caymen and I had laughed at how he had to kind of turn slightly sideways to make it through the doors in the boat.
This guy moved through without an issue.
And all I could think was to run.
So that was the instinct I followed, hoping that maybe Caymen was on this guy’s tail, and if I could just evade him for long enough, the two of us could take him down.
I got all of five feet, standing just outside the second bedroom, still a mess of clothing and personal care items, when one hand cinched me around the waist and the other went across my chest, pinning my arms down.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” the voice snarled as I did everything I could think of to break the hold.
But my father’s words came back to me, when I’d been complaining about all the drills we did, all the preparation, all the de-escalation and evasion.
“The fact of the matter is, Noa, you’re at a disadvantage in a fight. Know you’re not gonna wanna hear that. And I don’t like saying it. But if you’re hand-to-hand with someone just as trained as you, but he’s got eight more inches and fifty more pounds of muscle, you’re going to lose.”
He was right.
I’d hated it.
I’d tried to prove it wasn’t true each time I went to a self-defense class or sparred at home with him.
But again and again, he was right.
If I was up against someone bigger but less trained, I had a good shot at getting away. But someone who knew how to restrain meandwas bigger? My chances weren’t good.
“So much fight,” the voice said.
And for the first time, I noticed it.
The familiarity.
Something teased at the corners of my memory, but I was so panicked that I couldn’t focus enough on it.
“I’m not killing you.”
Then he went ahead and made me think he was lying as his hand closed over my throat.
It was another time when it was instantly clear he knew what he was doing.
He wasn’t strangling me.
He was putting very precise pressure on my carotid arteries in my neck.
The blurriness came fast.
