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