Chapter 1 #2
I scan the tight workout clothes he wears, knowing he’s carrying and curious where the weapon, or weapons, are hidden. Mine is in my shoe, which isn’t ideal for a fast grab, but I didn’t want to risk stabbing myself if I ended up rolling around on the mats today.
“But it’s still good practice, right? For when you guys are busy.” Micah’s hopeful expression reminds me of why I dragged myself here in the first place.
Like me, Jade also offered to teach Micah self-defense, but the apprenticing Omega assassin doesn’t have a handle on his emotions most days, and his lessons lean more toward kill first, ask questions never.
And Micah needs to feel safer, but can’t stomach blood. If this mediocre class helps, I’ll sit through it.
“Let’s see what they’ve got,” I concede, staying at the edge of the mat rather than joining the group.
Jade positions himself beside me, his posture mirroring mine.
When the instructors ask for participants to demonstrate the first set of moves, neither of us volunteers. Instead, we watch as Micah pairs with a woman about his height to practice how to break a wrist grab.
“Your stance is all wrong,” Jade calls out after Micah trips over his own feet. “You’re leaning back. Your weight needs to be centered.”
The male instructor pauses, glaring at us with irritation. “We have certified professionals leading this class. Please hold questions until the end.”
“Not a question,” Jade mutters under his breath.
He must catch Jade’s words, because his posture shifts, chin up and shoulders squaring with classic dominant Alpha bullshit.
My instincts bristle, ready to put him in his place. But doing so would ruin this for my friend, so I focus on Micah, who tries to adjust his footing based on Jade’s comment.
“You’re telegraphing every move,” I tell Micah. “Your eyes dart to where you’re going to strike before you do it.”
The instructor’s jaw tightens. He straightens, abandoning his demonstration to stride toward Jade and me. The room falls silent as attention shifts to our corner.
His hands land on his hips as he stops in front of us. “Perhaps our critics would like to demonstrate the proper technique?”
“We’re observing,” I reply, keeping my spine straight and my focus on his shoulder. Alphas with wounded pride are unpredictable, and this one’s scent carries notes of agitation.
“You know what? I’d like to show what happens during a real surprise attack.” The instructor’s smile doesn’t reach past his lips. “Most assailants won’t announce themselves or give you time to set your stance.”
His hand clamps down on my shoulder, spinning me around. His other arm locks across my chest, pulling me backward. My feet leave the ground for a sickening moment before my back slams into the mat with his body on top of me.
The gym vanishes, and I’m fifteen again, face pressed into cold concrete, a guard’s knee digging between my shoulder blades. “Stay down, if you don’t want to get torn up more than necessary.”
My vision narrows to pinpricks of light, and my body moves before thought catches up.
I buck hard, and the instructor’s hold disintegrates like wet paper. His arm slips where I want it, and I twist.
He howls and collapses to the side, clutching his wrist, but I’m already rolling with him, pinning him with a knee driven into the soft spot below his ribs.
He sucks in air. “Get—”
I cut him off with a forearm pressed across his throat. “Did you just fucking try to use Command on me?”
No one has the right to try to take away control of my body, least of all this posturing pissant of an Alpha. My vision tunnels, black creeping in at the edges, memories bleeding into now.
Cold concrete.
A boot next to my cheek.
The heaviness of an unwanted man on top of me.
The instructor wheezes, turning blotchy red. Someone shouts my name. Someone else gasps. Feet scramble backward on the mats, the whole room retreating.
He drives a knee upward in one of the classic moves he thinks can save his life. It doesn’t come close to landing, but the attempt snaps the last frayed thread in my restraint.
A snarl tears from my throat, and my hand clamps around his jaw, thumb hooking close to his eye socket.
“Saint.” Jade’s voice cuts through the haze. Controlled. Steady. Very, very aware of how one wrong move could escalate this beyond repair.
I don’t look at him.
The instructor thrashes again, and I slam him back down, knuckles cracking on the mat. His breath leaves in a pitiful choke. He’s done, but my body doesn’t care. My pulse hammers, drowning out everything but the ghost of hands pinning me down years ago.
“Saint.” Jade crouches beside me now. He’s close enough for me to catch the bitter scent of his adrenaline, but he remains in control. “He’s tapping out.”
Only then do I register the instructor’s good hand slapping the mat weakly in a universal sign of surrender.
I don’t loosen my grip.
Jade moves only when further hesitation will result in a fatality. His palm settles on the side of my neck, not in challenge but to provide contact to bring me back to myself. “Breathe. You’ve already won.”
My fingers tremble around the instructor’s jaw as I force them open, each inch a battle.
The man scrambles away the second he’s free, clutching his wrist to his chest, face contorted with animal panic as he scuttles backward on his elbows.
I stay kneeling, chest heaving, the world still washed in pulse-red haze.
Jade’s hand remains on my neck for one more heartbeat before he pulls away.
Around us, the gym is silent.
Micah stares at me, his chest rising and falling in fast, panicked breaths. “Saint? Are you okay?”
“Is he okay?” the instructor shouts. “He could have broken my wrist! What the hell was that?”
“You jumped him after he said he wasn’t participating in class,” Jade snarls. “What the fuck is your problem?”
Micah rushes forward, his face pale. “I’m so sorry. Saint’s ex-military. He has PTSD…”
The lies flow from his lips in a well-rehearsed explanation we’ve used before.
I stand, brushing invisible dirt from my clothes to hide the tremor in my hands. “My fault. You caught me off guard.”
The instructor puts several feet between us, his Alpha pride warring with the animal instinct that recognizes danger. “Maybe you should step out if you can’t handle a demonstration.”
“Maybe you should ask for consent before putting hands on someone,” Jade counters, his voice deadly quiet. “Unless you want a lawsuit.”
The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees.
The instructor turns back to the class with forced cheerfulness. “Let’s try the wrist escape again, everyone.”
Concern radiates from Micah as he touches my arm. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” The lie comes on autopilot, my heart still hammering. “Need water. Back in a minute.”
I don’t wait for a response, moving toward the locker room with measured steps to restrain the urge to run. Behind me, I hear Micah’s whispered conversation with Jade, concern in every syllable.
The fluorescent lights buzz, the sound amplifying the ringing in my ears. My hands curl into fists and release, over and over, as I count breaths.
One. Two. Three.
The instructor’s pheromones still cling to my shirt, mixing with the sour tang of fear, and it feeds my ghosts.
I grab my gym bag and jacket from their place by the wall and push into the locker room. I stride for the row of bathroom stalls and lock myself inside one. My fingers tremble on the metal door as I lean my forehead against the cool surface, counting breaths that refuse to slow down.
One, two, three… The numbers scramble in my head, hard to catch and put into order.
I sink onto the closed toilet lid, the plastic cold through my sweatpants. My gym bag hits the floor with a dull thud.
My hands won’t stop shaking. The sensation slithers up my arms and settles between my shoulder blades, where the instructor’s body had pressed me down.
Memory and present blur together, the fluorescent light morphing into the harsh beam of a flashlight, the ceramic tile under my feet becoming concrete.
“Not real,” I whisper to the empty stall, but the reassurance sounds far away, belonging to someone else.
Sweat beads along my hairline despite the air conditioning blasting from a vent above. Pressure builds under my skin, threatening to split me open if I don’t do something about it.
The small leather kit emerges from my bag almost of its own accord, my hands operating on muscle memory while my mind flounders. My thumb hovers over the zipper pull.
So easy.
So familiar.
Just one small cut.