Why wasn’t I screaming? The prop knife left my neck and dug into my side, retracting on impact. I sucked in a breath, the blood there throbbing instantly, but I was safe. I knew I was safe. And somewhere, deep inside my head where I felt the burn of shame, but no one else could see or read me, I’d missed this. I’d missed my mind racing, my heart trying to jump out of my chest, and someone not handling me like I was a glass ball. Where, in the inch of space between him and me, I reveled in the dirt on my skin and the terror of his words. Why wasn’t I using the safe word?
