by Eden Summers
I storm from the bathroom, yanking my sweater over my head as I continue to the wardrobe. If Luca thinks self-defense lessons will help me, then so be it. I’ll learn. It’s not like I enjoy being this broken shred of a woman. I don’t want to be useless.
I’m just not sure my shattered pieces can be recycled into something worthwhile.
I strip off my moist sweatpants without daring to look at them. That’s when I pause, my hand poised near another oversized outfit when my gaze catches on the only set of figure-hugging yoga pants I mindlessly purchased with Luca’s credit card when I first arrived.
I have a closet full of baggy items. But I no longer want to hide in those.
I want to be better. To be whole.
I’m not going to like this. I already hate it. Yet, I drag the stretchy pants from the shelf anyway and don’t allow myself to acknowledge an ounce of discomfort as I yank them on.
I ignore the snug fit as the material clings tight to my thighs. And I don’t take note of my figure after I drag a tank top from the shelf and pull it on. The inbuilt sports bra is the closest I’ve come to underwear in a long time.
Everything I wear is constricting. I try to make it embolden me, the taunting restriction working as a reminder of what I’ve been through. A conniving devil smothered over every inch of my body.
Then I turn on my goddamn heels and trek back to the living room, determined to find a piece of myself in whatever maddening defense lesson Luca has in mind.
If only the look in his eyes didn’t lessen my wafer-thin enthusiasm.
I wish I could ignore this, too. The frowned shock at my appearance. The wrinkles of disapproval.
“Something wrong?” I ask over the lump in my throat.
“No. Nothing.” His voice is gruff as he pushes the coffee table away from the sofa, creating space in the middle of the room. “Just surprised, that’s all. It’s been a while since you wore something that didn’t resemble a sack.”
I take a step back, my skin crawling with the need to hide.
“Get over here,” he growls. “Let’s get this done.”
“If this is such a burden, why are we even doing it?”
“It’s not a burden.” The growl deepens. “It’s—” He stops mid-sentence, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck.
“It’s what, Luca?”
“Nothin’. Just get over here.”
I bite my lip, not wanting to move, equally despising the warmth that has shifted from between my thighs to pool in my chest.
“Now, shorty.”
“Okay, you don’t need to bark at me.” I walk forward, my heart fluttering wilder the closer I get, the furious beat only increasing when I stop a few feet away from him. “What do you want me to do?”
He doesn’t meet my gaze as he repositions his stance on the rug, spreading his legs a few inches apart. “I’m going to teach you some basic moves first.” He brushes his hands together, his biceps flexing beneath the cuffs of his T-shirt. “When someone’s coming at you, you want to be assertive and as loud as possible. Obviously, aim for the groin if you can. That tends to drop a guy like a sack of shit. But if you can’t, you can try a hammer punch.” He clenches his fist and makes a predictable hammer movement. “Or your elbows. Or the heel of your palm. You want to use—”
“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 ca
lloused 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 t
he 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.