PULSE [H.S]

017

"Self-defense is not only a set of techniques; it's a state of mind, and it begins with the belief that you are worth defending." — Rorion Gracie

Harry lied.

He didn't bring me home; he brought me to the stupid fucking gym for a boxing lesson, calling it a pit stop on the way home. It is the last place I want to be right now.

"I hate this place," I grumble as I follow him inside.

He says, "That's offensive. I own this place."

I follow him over to our usual mat. My mind betrays me, starting to think about all the blood that's probably been spilled on this mat, right where I'm standing. This whole place is probably tainted with death.

"We're going to go over some escape techniques," Harry says as he pulls his hoodie over his head, leaving him in his t-shirt. The hoodie pulls the shirt up with it, revealing his abs momentarily. My eyes dart there naturally, and they stay there too long. He says, "Focus, Kizalyn."

My cheeks burn, but I tie my hair back and nod at him. His hand grabs my wrist, and his long fingers tighten around it. This grip is familiar. I've felt it way too often recently, and I've never managed to get myself out of it.

My breath hitches in my throat when I look down at the way he is grabbing me. All of the different times Aaron put his hands on me like that cycle through my mind. I've always been too weak to do anything about it.

He says, "I know it's hard, but you need to be prepared."

I nod at him. His grip is firm, but not tight enough to hurt.

He says, "Get your arm free."

I try pulling and twisting my arm as hard as I can, but I think my arm would pop out of its socket before I managed to get my wrist free. Eventually, I give up, accepting my defeat.

He says, "You're pushing against my hand, which is the strongest part of my grip. You want to focus here." He points to where his fingers meet his thumb. "This is the weak spot. Pull your arm out that way."

I try it, and I still struggle a little, but it's definitely easier. After a few tries, I pull my arm away from him and get myself free. He grabs both of my wrists next, and I try it again, focusing on the weak spots.

"You're weak—"

"Really?" I interject and roll my eyes. "I didn't notice."

He glares at me. He says, "I wasn't finished speaking, smart ass. You're weak, so you need to be strategic. Find your opponents weak spots and use those to your advantage."

Harry takes a few steps back, and then walks behind me. His arm wraps around my neck as he puts me in a chokehold without any warning. My hands fly up to his arm, gripping it.

His voice is right next to her ear when he says, "What weak spots can you reach from this position?"

Even though this is a fake scenario, it's hard for me to think straight with my airway in threat of being cut off. I take a breath and think about the position I'm in.

"Your balls," I say.

He says lowly, "I can assure you, angel, that my dick is not weak."

"You're gross, Harry," I say as I struggle against him in an attempt to free myself, but his grip doesn't budge.

He says, "Where else?"

"I don't know," I huff. "Your legs?"

"Mhmm," he hums. "You could kick my shin, heel stomp my feet, or elbow my stomach."