I blink. “Did you just?—”
“I panicked,” she says quickly. “It’s my brand.”
A laugh tries to climb out of my chest again. I shove it down. “Try again. Slow.”
I wrap my hand around her wrist, firm but controlled. “You don’t pull straight back. You rotate toward the weak point.”
She frowns. “Weak point?”
I turn her wrist slightly. “Thumb. Always. Rotate here.”
She tries it. Her hand slips free with a sudden jerk. Her eyes go wide. “Oh! I did it!”
“Yes.”
She bounces on her toes like she won a medal. “Okay, do it again.”
I grab her other wrist.
She rotates sharply and frees herself faster this time. “Ha!” She grins at me like she’s proud—and that pride hits me somewhere low and unexpected.
“Good,” I say, voice rougher than it should be.
She tilts her head. “Did you just praise me?”
“No.”
“Yes you did.”
“I said one word.”
“That’s basically a love poem from you.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Focus, Emma.”
Her gaze flicks to my mouth. Then back to my eyes. “Focused,” she whispers, but her cheeks are pink now, and her breathing is a little faster.
I clear my throat. “Next… if someone grabs you from behind.”
Her eyes widen. “That happens a lot in my nightmares.”
“Then we train so it doesn’t end the same way.” I move behind her carefully, placing my hands lightly at her upper arms. “If someone hooks you like this, you drop your weight and strike sensitive points.”
She swallows. “Sensitive points like…”
“Groin. Instep. Eyes.” I pause. “Throat if you have to.”
She goes still. “Okay.”
I guide her, slow and controlled. “Drop your weight—good. Now drive your elbow back.”
She does. And she nails me right in the ribs.
Hard.
I grunt, stumbling a step. “Jesus.”
Emma’s eyes go huge. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”