Free In Control by Michelle Robbins Page B

Had he lost his mind? Kneel? As if .
    She sipped from her wineglass as she exited the kitchen and approached him. He stood between her and the halloumi skewers, seemingly protecting the munchies with his body. She tossed her head, daring him to make her. Her stomach growled.
    Don't you dare laugh, fucker .
    He didn't. Instead, he plucked the wineglass from her hand and lowered himself into the chair. A pained wince flashed across his face as he used the leg. Maybe she should say something? Before she could think of something to say--polite? Supportive? Compassionate?--he'd set her glass on the table beside his own.
    He made a triangle of his fingers and pressed them against his lips as he gazed at her, not unlike how a pompous royal examined the annoying peasantry who'd dared to bother him with their needs. The urge to be compassionate evaporated.
    He lowered his hands. "What we're attempting to do here with the kneeling is to get you used to trusting someone else with your safety. I think it's clear you've had troubles in that area and our goal here is to repeat the action with no negative consequence. Yeah, it'll be uncomfortable, but like my fucked-up leg, it must be worked in order to heal."
    "Picking at a scab? How wonderful."
    "Rewiring your brain, for lack of a better term. You've been conditioned to be wary. Let's ease your hyper-vigilance."
    She'd heard this before from the dudes with notepads, couches, and clocks. "Oooh, big word," she scorned.
    "I've worked with PTSD sufferers while in the hospital. I'm no shrink, true, but this seems a relatively harmless exercise of CBT."
    "Cock-and-ball torture?"
    He laughed. Not at her, no, but a full-bodied, masculine laugh of vigorous humor. He sparkled, his energy filling the room with a bright, healthy feeling. She felt herself begin to relax. Eventually, he wound down and took a couple of deep breaths.
    "Cognitive Behavior Therapy," he clarified. "Now, c'mon, gorgeous. Kneel and let me feed you."
    This was the plan, Annabel reminded herself. This was the reason why she'd sweated and fretted for the past forty-eight hours, wanting, wishing, fearing. The request was such a simple thing, ego aside, if one considered it in its fullness. To kneel. But for her, it rasped painfully against everything she'd learned.
    A person could run faster and better if she was already on her feet. Kneeling hobbled the ability to escape. To fetter herself...to deliberately reduce her ability to escape... She knelt only when she needed something she couldn't provide for herself, like a roof over her head, and used the act to manipulate and get her way. But what he asked of her... trust, not games.
    "I-I can't."
    He watched her, his gaze equal parts compassionate and aware. He radiated empathy and admiration. "You're one of the strongest people I've ever met. I can't imagine what you lived with as a child--what I triggered with my jackassery--but what I do know is..." He spaced the words for emphasis. "You...can...do...this."
    Annabel made a fist. She glanced at the carpet, only her leg's length away, yet a monstrous gap she wasn't emotionally ready to tackle. But refusing to do so spoke of fear. It spoke of cowardice.
    She was not afraid. She was no coward.
    "Want some help?" Zach offered quietly.
    "No," she snapped.
    By "help," she knew he meant forcing her down. No, she wouldn't--couldn't--let this defeat her. She would overcome her history. She would not be held down by the person she used to be.
    She would do more than survive. She would thrive.
    Slowly, hesitantly, she hitched up her calf-length peasant skirt and bent her knees, easing herself down inch by inch. She bobbed up and down a couple of times. Zach never moved, his calm and stillness offering a strange feeling of trust. A few false starts, sure, but that was to be expected, right? The carpet touched one knee--she started, wary, but he never moved--and she found the courage to ease onto the other knee. There she rested, a wary, wild