“Soon, huh?” he said, assessing my form. “You sound confident you’ll be cleared.”

I tried not to let him see me grimace. It was the second time today someone had brought up my psych evaluation, and all the meddling was starting to grate on me. Sam knew little about my situation, just enough to understand why I was here. Abduction. Trauma. Recovery. That last part was a work in progress, but he’d already given me some solid instruction. In some ways, I was getting more value out of my karate classes than the meetings with my state-appointed therapist.

“Gasko is . . . hard to . . . read,” I panted as I punched. “But he seems happy with my progress.”

Silently, Sam crossed the room to the padded targets piled in the corner. My eyes followed him in the mirror as he selected a kick shield and retraced his steps. When he got back to where I was, he peered down at me. “What about you?”

I swiveled to face him and shook out my arms. I could feel my pulse in the tips of my fingers, and what remained of my burn throbbed. “It’s not like I have an actual problem. The flashbacks are gone. I’m back to normal. As normal as I ever was.”

Sam grunted noncommittally and instructed me to kick the pad.

My first few kicks were strong, but the pad didn’t budge. “Gasko’s acting like I’m going to start hallucinating the second I’m on a new case. According to him, if it’s a kidnapping or a homicide, I’m screwed.”

“Kick through the bag.”

I pivoted on the ball of my foot and channeled all the power I could muster into my right leg. Sam didn’t even wobble. “Apparently women are at greater risk of PTSD after a traumatic event, so Gasko’s convinced I’m still a mess. But I’m not checking those boxes, not anymore. I know the signs.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Bring that leg back to chamber every time.” He arched an auburn eyebrow. “So no problems sleeping, then.”

Kick. “I’m sleeping fine.”

“No bad memories you can’t control.”

Kick. “Not a one.”

“You don’t avoid conversations that force you to think about your trauma. You’re not suspicious of strangers. No anxiety or amplified startle response.”

“Jesus, Sam.” I kicked the bag three times in quick succession, and this time Sam momentarily lost his balance. My thighs were on fire—and what the hell was this? I hadn’t confided in him about my attack so he could throw it back in my face. I didn’t mention the mandatory therapy sessions so he could mock me. The last thing I needed was another person psychoanalyzing me. When I told him as much, Sam only shrugged.

“I’m asking,” he said, “because it’s relevant to what we’re doing here. It matters, Shana. You can’t train your body to be alert without also training your mind.”

It happened fast. The padded shield hit the floor with a muffled thud, and Sensei Sam went from a pillar of stone to a cyclone. I had just enough time to plant my feet before he was behind me, his right arm wrapped tight around my neck. The muscles in his forearm strained against my sternum and the soft underside of my chin. His left hand clasped his wrist to lock the hold into place. I could feel his breath in my ear and his sweat on my cheek as he pressed the length of his body against my back.