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?”
“Isheokay?” 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 amplifyingthe 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 thereassurance 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.