Men like Derek rarely listened. They interpreted warnings as challenges, mistook composure for fear, and believed a quiet woman was pleading for permission to survive.
“One,” I said.
Diane got up. “Claire, stop embarrassing yourself.”
“Two.”
Derek gripped tighter. “You think some old video scares me?”
“Three.”
I shifted just enough to escape his hold. No punches, kicks, or theatrical spinning moves. I simply rotated my wrist, stepped aside, and pressed two fingers against a precise spot near his elbow. His knees buckled before his pride did.
He gasped.
I immediately released him and backed away, both hands open and visible.
Derek stumbled, his face reddening. “She attacked me!”
“No,” Ryan said, blood still on his mouth and fury in his eyes. “You grabbed her.”
Derek charged again.
Marissa shouted for him to stop, but he was already swinging. I avoided his punch, caught his wrist, redirected his momentum, and pinned him facedown against the picnic table without throwing a strike. Paper plates scattered. Barbecue sauce stained his shirt, and his cheek pressed into a heap of napkins.
