Page 78 of Luciano

“You’re a woman,” I continued. “In this life, if you’re in real danger, it’ll be from a man. If they get close enough, you don’t fight. You finish. You strike to kill. Fast. No announcements. No dramatics. You cut the power, the oxygen, or the motor function.”

She looked at me. “How?”

“You don’t go for the chest. Too many bones. Too much margin for error. You go for vulnerability. Soft tissue. Arteries. Places evolution didn’t expect to be pierced.”

I pointed again to the dummy.

“The femoral—severs their ability to run. They’ll bleed out in under three minutes if you hit it right. The brachial slows them down. Makes them desperate. Sloppy. The carotid?” I tapped the side of my own neck. “You don’t need strength. Just angle and speed. One slice. Deep enough. That’s it.”

I stepped closer, watching her hands, her posture.

“If they grab you, don’t pull away. You’ll lose leverage. Move into them. Use your proximity. Under the ribcage, up and in. Don’t think. Just move.”

I leaned in, voice lowering.

“Because you’re a woman. They’ll expect hesitation. You give them finality.”

“The way you keep saying I’m a woman almost sounds offensive.”

I didn’t respond to her comment. Her being weaker than most men wasn’t an insult. It was a reality.

“Do it. Show me,” I said.

She stepped forward. She swung, moving like someone who wanted to understand what she was capable of. That was more dangerous than talent.

The first slice was surface only. The second was deeper—clean across the simulated brachial artery. Red spilled from the dummy.

I saw her chest rise.

“Again,” I said.

She went for the femoral this time. Sharp. Committed. Fake blood sprayed out, coating the rubber legs. Her hand was wet with it.

“Again,” I yelled, until I could see she was wearing herself out.

She stopped and looked down at her blood-streaked fingers. Then up at me. There was fascination—and something darker in her eyes, making me think Ava might have another side.

“What happens if I miss?” she asked, breaking me from my thoughts.

“You don’t,” I said simply. “But if you do… you don’t stop. That’s when you stab.”

Her lips parted like she might speak—but she didn’t.

She raised the knife again without prompt and jabbed it into the fake body—then smiled.

Chapter 35

Ava

Luciano sat at the edge of the bed like he was preparing for war, not about to go down on me for the first time.

Shirt off. Hair slightly messy from my hands. Lips swollen from kissing. Dick hard.

But this man was still overthinking, like he was prepping for surgery instead of cunnilingus.

“I read that rhythmic pressure from the flat of the tongue combined with suction on the clit—”

“Luciano.”

---