Page 198 of Marrying the Savage

I tried to push it out of my head, to turn it into something smaller than it was. A drunk creep. A bad moment. A man who got too close and paid for it. But that’s not what happened. His arm locked around my throat with purpose. He pulled me back like he knew exactly how to cut off my air before I could scream. For a few seconds, I wasn’t being harassed. I was being killed.

And why?

That’s the part I can’t get past. He wasn’t just some idiot at the bar. It was planned, or at least practiced. I can’t tell Damir that, because if I do, he will tear the city open before we know enough, and part of me is still ashamed that all of this began because I ran.

“An arm?”

I nod.

She glances toward the closed door. Then back at me.

“Did he do this?” The question is direct.

For a second, I don’t understand. Then I do, and my stomach twists.

“No,” I say at once. “Not Damir.”

Her eyes stay on mine. “You can answer honestly here.”

“I am.”

“Has he ever put his hands on your throat or restricted your breathing?”

“No.” The answer comes quickly because it’s true.

Damir has done many things wrong. He has ordered, controlled, hidden, decided, and taken over my life as if force is a language everyone should understand.

But he didn’t do this.

“He didn’t hurt me,” I say. “A man at the club did.”

The doctor nods, still watching me carefully. “All right.”

She continues the examination. My throat is tender, but nothing appears broken. She checks my pupils, my blood pressure, my oxygen, my breathing. Then she asks about the fight at the gallery, about the last few days, whether I was drugged, whether I lost time, whether I ate properly.

The answer to that last one is embarrassing.

“Not much,” I admit.

“Any vomiting?”

“No.”

“Nausea?”

“A little.”

“Dizziness?”

“Sometimes.”

“Abdominal pain?”

“No.”

“Last menstrual period?”

I stop.