Free The Art of Control by Ella Dominguez

freeze in my spot as the man starts swinging the knife. Dylan moves back with each swiping movement and I’m amazed at his agility and gracefulness. The man swings the knife again and I could swear that it makes contact, but Dylan doesn’t flinch. Dylan’s lithe body and nimble hands move hastily and he somehow manages to get the knife out of the man’s hands, though I’m not quite sure how. It all happens so fast. Dylan throws the knife out of reach and I hear the man grunt when Dylan punches him in the jaw.
    Holy fighting ninja skills, my husband is a bad ass.  The sound of Dylan’s fist hitting the man’s face makes me cringe and reminds of when Cassie hit me with the gun. I bring my hands up to my ears, not wanting to hear that God awful sound again.  Dylan punches the man square in his diaphragm and he falls to the ground, wheezing and gasping for air. Dylan kicks him in the stomach, but the assailant quickly picks himself up and runs in the opposite direction.
    What the hell just happened ? I run to Dylan who is standing motionless and out of breath. He turns to me and looks me over.
    “Are you okay?” he asks.
    “Yes. Did he hurt you?”  I ask, checking him over as well. The street is dark and Dylan appears to be fine, but when I touch his chest, it feels wet. When I look down at my hand, it’s covered in Dylan’s blood.
    “Oh, Dylan!” I shriek out. I can’t lose him. I just can’t .

Chapter 5
    Dylan
    “Shush, Isa. I’m fine. It’s just a flesh wound. Let’ s get the fuck out of here,” I tell her, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the street.
    “How do you know it’s just a flesh wound? We need to call an ambulance,” Isa stutters and cries out.
    “Fuck that. We’re not getting the police involved, especially in a foreign country. It’ll be a nightmare. Let’s just get back to the hotel room,” I state emphatically, tugging her.
    We walk half a block before we finally see a cab. Isa flags it down and helps me into the car. I’m shaking from my adrenalin rush and Isa is, too. I pull her close, trying to soothe her anxiety.
    “I’m fine, baby girl,” I say unconvincingly. 
    I sa keeps her eyes on me the entire drive back and she looks mortified. She keeps repeatedly touching me and kissing the top of my hand. It’s touching but distressing to see her to frantic and worried. 
    Back at the hotel, we make a beeline straight to the room as to avoid anyone seeing my bloodied state. I peel my shirt off as soon as we hit the door and I dig out the first aid kit in the bathroom cupboard. I inspect the damage in the mirror while Isa readies some wet washcloths.
    “Sit down, Dylan,” she orders and points to the toilet.
    I lower the lid and sit , and Isa kneels in front of me to inspect my chest. The cut is only mildly deep and about five inches long.  It’s just under my left pectoral muscle and over my heart. When Isa sees that it’s just a flesh wound, she immediately relaxes.
    She cleans my laceration well, first with the cloth and then dabs antiseptic on it. It hurts like a motherfucker and I wince and hiss through my teeth.  My eyes remain tightly closed when she cleans it once more just for good measure. Next, Isa gingerly applies the butterfly bandages that are in the kit and places two larger gauze pads over it and tapes it down. She’s very good at this sort of thing and it makes me wonder how she knows how to bandage a wound so well.
    “You’re very adept at taking care of injuries,” I tell her.
    She shrugs her shoulders but remains silent. Somehow, I suspect the reason she’s good at it is because of her father. She sits back on her haunches and keeps her eyes on my chest. She’s withdrawing again.
    “I’m fine,” I try to reassure her.
    She nods, but she still says nothing and won’t look at me.
    “Isabel, please look at me.”
    She knots her hands in her lap and looks down at them.
    “Talk to me,” I repeat.
    She shakes her head and shrugs