by Eden Summers
“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I learned these basics in high school. I don’t need to go through them again.”
“Good.” Finally, he meets my gaze. “Practice on me, then.”
That rampant heartbeat falters. Stutters. “I don’t wa—”
“You don’t want to. You don’t need to. I’ve heard it all before. Let’s not have this argument again. Just because you think you don’t need to learn doesn’t mean you shouldn’t practice. So throw a swing. Get out some of the built-up aggression you have toward me.”
“I don’t have built-up aggression toward you.”
“The outline of the gun barrel in my stomach says otherwise.” He beckons me closer with a jerk of his chin. “Come on. Let me have it.”
I sigh and lunge forward, attempting to hit him with a gentle elbow.
“Seriously?” He bats me away. “That’s all you’ve got? What happened to the woman who slapped me across the face in Greece? Or the one who attempted to stab me with a syringe?”
I flinch at the reminder.
Even when I didn’t know Luca, I hated hurting him. There was always the slightest sense I was doing something wrong. Like I could see his kind soul through his aggressive and dark demeanor.
“And don’t forget the tiger scratches you lashed my chest with the other day,” he continues. “My cheek, too.”
Oh, God.
My gaze snaps to his face, my hands instinctively reaching for the damage hidden beneath his growing stubble. It’s an uncharacteristic move, my yearning for touch feeling shockingly natural. “Is that why you haven’t shaved?”
He stiffens, his nostrils flaring. “I didn’t think it was a good idea to advertise our fight.”
“I’m sorry.” My fingertips graze over the rough hair along his jaw, the prickle spreading under my skin. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that.”
He doesn’t respond, just stares back at me, expression tight, shoulders tighter.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” I trace the fading red line that stretches from his cheekbone to the side of his chin. “I wasn’t myself.”
“You didn’t hurt me.” He jerks away, rejecting me with the sudden retreat. “Now, let’s get back to business. Throw a swing that would make Rousey proud.”
“Rousey?”
“Forget it. Just take a swing. Don’t be a wimp.”
I launch at him, showing just how un-wimpy I can be. I swing and jab and elbow. One after the other, each move defended and dodged with effortlessness that is both enticing and incredibly annoying.
“Good.” He nods in encouragement. “But like I said, be assertive. Don’t let an attacker think you’re meek.”
I grunt with my next hammer punch. Yell with an elbow strike.
“Good… good… good…” He continues to placate me with fluid movements and profound skill. “That’s the warrior I know.”
I’m no warrior. I can barely keep up with my own punches, my energy almost fully drained.
I step back, panting, and slump over. “I’ve had enough of these moves. Can you teach me something involving blades or bullets?”
“We’ll get to that. But can we kick it up a notch and try a choke hold?”
I remain hunched over, my blood chilling despite the sweat coating my skin.
Flashbacks steal my breath. My focus. Memories clench at my heart.
“Stand up,” he instructs. “I’ll run through the basics.”
I can’t straighten.
Here I was demanding more vicious attack strategies and I can’t even handle the thought of his first suggestion.
“Come on.” He claps me on the shoulder. “It won’t take long.”
“Just give me a minute.” My voice cracks, the gravel coating my throat climbing higher and higher.
“You can rest after this.”
“No.” I look up at him, his hulking frame looming over me. “I don’t think I’m ready.”
He raises a brow. “You said the same thing about exercising. Yet it made you feel better, didn’t it?”
I shake my head, unable to find the words to explain without increasing my pathetic state of mind.
This triggers vicious memories. Lingering nightmares.
“Don’t shake that head at me, shorty.” He waves me forward. “Get your ass moving.”
My heart pounds beneath tightening ribs. My stomach churns. “Please go slow.”
He frowns. “Of course. You’ll be fine.”
I inch forward, my body acting autonomously because I have no capacity to think. Only panic.
Luca raises his muscled arms, placing his hands delicately around my throat. The graze of calloused skin brings a wave of sickening remembrance. The pressure is barely felt. Featherlight. It steals my breath regardless.
“Are you okay?” His voice provides a temporary distraction, the sound giving me the opportunity to latch onto those deep hazel eyes.
I focus on him. On the familiar comfort. The picture of protection.
I don’t want to disappoint him.
I can’t let Luther win.
“Yes.” Memories continue to haunt me from my mind’s eye. The digging, scratching fingers. The choking fear.
I refuse to let panic take over. Each time I face my demons I get one step closer to my reunion with Tobias. If I can’t do this for myself, I need to do it for him.
“Breathe through it.” Luca’s hold remains loose. Even kind. The gentle brush of the pad of his thumb is a coaxing reminder of the here and now. “Tell me how you’d get out of this.”
His grip tightens almost imperceptibly. But the restriction increases my panic.
I breathe deeper. Shorter. My oxygen lessens as the flashbacks build in force.
A face so close to my own, twisted in sickening glee.
Pressure—so much pressure.
“Focus, Pen.” He strokes his thumb faster. “How would you get out of this hold?”
I swallow and force myself to channel my emotions away from fear. “I don’t know.” I grab his wrists and attempt to push his arms away.
It’s no use. He’s too strong.
I raise my knee, my attack on his junk blocked with a swift slide of his thigh.
“That’s a good start.” He wiggles his arms. “You could put pressure on my wrists in the hopes of bringing me closer. The harder the better. Yank or pull my arms down.”
I attempt to do as instructed, not achieving all that much when I’m pitted against a wall of muscle.
“Then what?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” I grow frustrated, the lingering panic mingling with helplessness. “You’re too strong. There’s no point.”
“Stop sulking,” he growls. “There’s always a point. Hand-to-hand combat is difficult for everyone. The only winner is the guy whose buddy turns up with a gun. What I’m trying to teach you are ways to buy time. Or enough freedom to run. So go back to basics.” He rubs his fingers along the sensitive part of my throat. “What are the best places to attack?”
I can’t think. Can’t concentrate between the memories and that delicately gentle brush of his thumb. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Focus. Don’t let the fear take over.”
I’m trying. Failing.
“Come on, Pen.” He leans in, meeting my gaze at eye level. “You did good when you tried to launch an attack at my dick. But what would you do next? Eyes? Nose? Ears? Remember the basics. The throat is a good target, too, if you can get to it.”
“Okay.” I nod and go through the motions, gently thrusting and punching and swiping.
“Another option is where you grab my wrist with your left hand, then raise your right arm high and twist your hips toward me. This makes your shoulder act as a barrier, but you’re also going to bring your raised arm down with a hard strike at the same time to break the hold against your throat.”
I blink rapidly as I try to take in the instructions—raise arm, twist, hard strike.
I run through the steps in slow motion. Gently.
“Good.” He nods. “That’s real good. Now do it again, but this time properly. Pretend this is real.”
His grip increases, the restriction on my throat becoming a living, breathing nightmare.
My pulse goes crazy. My sharp inhales sound like a freight train.
“You’ve got this, shorty.”
I don’t think I can.
I can’t.
Visions blind me. There’s Luther. Robert. Chris. Their hands. Their grip. Their unyielding strength. The black spots. The rush of blood to my head.
“Focus,” Luca repeats, the soothing balm of his voice doing nothing to ease my mania.
“No.” I yank his wrists, trying to break his hold. “Stop.”
“It’s okay. Just do it one more time with force.”
Monstrous ghosts chuckle in my mind, loving my suffering. There’s only the threat of rape. The ongoing torture of my pitiful existence.
“No,” I repeat. “Stop.”
He removes his hands, the liberation bringing relief, but not freedom. I still feel trapped in the past. The threat is right there, darkening my vision, making it impossible to get air.
I stumble backward, my throat drying to the point of torturous pain.
“Talk to me.” He follows. “What’s going on?”
I keep stumbling, keep retreating. There’s not enough oxygen. I can’t fill my lungs.
“Penny, are you having a panic attack?”
I spin around and stagger for the kitchen. Water.
This was all too soon. I’m not ready.
I’ll never be ready.
I lunge for the faucet, cupping liquid so I can drink, drink, drink away the mindlessness.
“Tell me what’s going on.” His hand brushes my shoulder. “Jesus, just talk to me.”
I hunch over the counter, sucking in breath after breath. I’m suffocating. About to pass out.
“He choked you.” His words aren’t a question. “He fucking choked you, and you didn’t think to bring it up? Why?”
I sway, my head heavy, my legs weak.
“You should’ve told me.” He grabs my arms, stabilizing me, tugging me toward him. Gently, he guides me to sit on the cool tile, the cabinets at my back. “Why didn’t you tell me this was a trigger?”
I shake my head, still feeling the grip around my throat, still seeing Luther’s face staring back at me with smug satisfaction. “Everything’s a trigger.”
“Then tell me everything.”
“No.” I squeeze my eyes closed. “That’s not going to happen.” Not only because I’d struggle reliving the intricate details of my imprisonment, but because Luca’s demeanor changes whenever we talk about my past. His mood shifts. His posture changes. And even though his aggression isn’t directed at me, I still don’t appreciate being the cause of his negative energy.
“Did he do it more than once?” he asks.
“Luca…” I sigh to fill the void when words escape me. “Let it go.”
“I wish I could,” he grates. “How I fucking wish.”
He shifts beside me, making me panic—is he finally leaving me, running from my multitude of problems? But when I open my eyes he’s still there, his head pressed back against the cabinets, his expression filled with failure as he stares blankly ahead.
Weary silence consumes the few inches between us.
“I’m sorry I can’t be the person you want me to be.” It feels strange apologizing to him. A month ago, I didn’t even know this man. Now he’s my world. My recovery and survival. “I wish I was the warrior you think I am, but I’m not.”
“I don’t give a shit if you’re a warrior. I just want to help.” His words are growled. Brutal and guttural. “It fucking kills me to watch you go through this on your own. That you won’t talk to me.”
“Because I hate seeing you angry. Every time I mention him you change.”
“Of course I change. Of course I get fucking angry.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t you understand how much I want to go back in time and kill Luther the way he deserved to be killed? You have no idea how I wish I could’ve found you sooner. How I’d give anything to have known you beforehand so you never had to suffer in the first place.”
“Luca…”
“I’d do anything for you.” He holds my gaze, intense and unwavering. “Anything.”
The warmth he inspired earlier reignites, the flickering flame shedding light on the darkness within.
I swallow again, my mouth needing moisture.
My clothes become more restrictive. The sports bra tightens around my breasts.
I’m drawn to him. All the strength and protection.
I want to breathe it in, suck it deep. Fill my lungs, my heart, and my weary head.
“You’re too good to me,” I whisper. “Why?”
He huffs out a harsh laugh. “You’ve got a short memory. You’re still on the floor after I pushed you into a panic attack.”
I lean back against the cupboards and sigh. “It’s not the only thing you’ve pushed me into. The good outweighs the bad.”
“Like what?”
I shake my head, not wanting to delve into the details of why I had to change clothes. “It doesn’t matter.”
We fall quiet, nothing but our breathing to pepper the silence.
It’s soothing.
Just Luca and I.
No expectations. No pressure.
I could stay here for hours.
“I’m proud of you.” He places his hand over mine and gives a light squeeze. “We’ll try this again tomorrow. Without the choke hold.”
He makes a move to stand and I panic again.
“Don’t go.” I rush to grip his calloused fingers. “Stay with me a while.”
I want the contact. Despite the anxiety and the flashbacks, I want his touch.
I need it.
“Okay.” He settles back beside me, shoulder to shoulder, one leg stretched out, the other bent. “Are we talking or ignoring each other?”
It’s my turn to chuckle. “Does it matter?” I shoot him a glance, getting caught up in eyes that smolder.
Why does he have to be so attractive? He’s handsome and savage and beautifully lethal.
Those attributes scared me not so long ago. Attractive men were monsters. All men.
Now there’s Luca. Visually appealing and soul awakening.
My heart beats harder as my curiosity piques. Will more closeness bring added comfort? Does this delicious ache inside me have the potential to assist my recovery?
“Would you let me try something?” I swallow. “I mean, in an attempt to see if it helps my recovery?”
He frowns. “Of course.”
I nod against the surge of invigoration hollowing my stomach and rise onto my knees, turning to face him. I shuffle until my legs touch his thigh, his shoulders stiffening with the contact.
“Everything okay?” he asks. “You look scared.”
I am.
No. I’m nervous.
I want to touch him. Feel him.
But those moments have always been tainted for me.
Touch has rarely been kind.
Not until Luca.
“I just…” I reach for him, my palm reclaiming its favored position against his stubbled cheek. “I…” I shake away my explanation when he stiffens further. “Do you want me to stop?”
“What are you doing, exactly, shorty?” His voice is low. Roughened.
“I don’t know. Does that matter?”
“No.” He offers the word simply, but his eyes are cautious. “Do whatever you need.”
I have a feeling he’ll regret the offer, because what I want to do is tentatively place my lips on his and see if panic overwhelms me.
I lean forward, holding his gaze, barely blinking.
Every part of me thrums. I can’t hear through the static ringing in my ears. But I feel safe, protected, his strength luring me in.
I approach to within a few inches when his nostrils flare, the grind of his jaw rippling under my fingertips. He’s uncomfortable and still I can’t smother my curiosity.
I want to try this one thing for me. Not because I was pushed. Or frightened.
For me.
For healing.
“Penny.” My name is a warning. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” I steal the space between us, brushing my mouth over his, the connection jolting through every inch of me despite the exquisite softness of his lips.
I awaken with sensation. With tingles and yearning and light.
Sexuality washes over me. But it’s not degrading or demeaning like I predict. There’s no fear or disgust.
Everything is slow and sweet, his kiss a gentle dance as a growl emanates from his chest.
He frees me, helping me spread my wings to soar while remaining immobile.
Warmth takes over. Building. The blaze burns hottest between my thighs.
I could cry from the relief.
I want to laugh and sob and sing.
Until he jerks away, breaking the heavenly connection with a scowl. “Shit. That shouldn’t have happened.”
I blink rapidly, entirely dazed. “I’m sor—”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” He shoves to his feet. “This wasn’t your mistake; it was mine.”
I wince. “I kissed you, not—”
“You were barely fucking coherent moments ago. You didn’t know what you were doing. But I did.” He shoves a hand through his hair, his scowl deepening. “I knew, and I didn’t stop it.”
He’s wrong. I knew, too.
Heart, mind and soul, I knew.
“I took advantage.” He backtracks, his hand falling to his side. “After everything you’ve been through, I still took fucking advantage.”
“Luca, no.” I scramble to my feet. “Please don’t walk away from me.”
“I’m not.” He gives a sad smile. “But you were right. You need space. And time. I’m going to give you both.”