I slipped out of my robe and took one of the last clean pairs of underwear from a drawer.
“Leave them,” Cristiano said.
I froze. “But I’m still on my period.”
He grunted his disapproval. “How much longer?”
“A few days probably.” I proceeded to pull on the most unflattering underwear I had. “I found tampons in your bathroom. You must spend a lot of time with women to keep those handy.”
“Jaz put them in there for you,” he said.
I slipped into my dress, feeling his eyes on me. I’d been told on enough California beaches that I had a good ass, but it wasn’t the product of the gym. I never worked out, though that would have to change if I were going to continue with the self-defense classes.
“Is there a fitness center here?” I asked.
“I’ll get someone to dust it off.”
I looked over my shoulder at him. “You don’t use it?” I hadn’t meant to sound so surprised. He wasn’t beefy by any means, but muscles like his went way beyond genetics.
“Nah. Get my exercise in other ways. You can’t design a better glutes workout than squatting outside a drug lab with binoculars for eight hours. Nor can you spar with friends like you can fend off enemies. Sharpens reflexes. Builds muscle.” He winked. “And stamina.”
I stared at him, trying to decide if he was exaggerating. “I never thought I’d have a killer for a husband,” I muttered.
“What do you think Diego is?”
The question caught me off guard, but it was warranted. “He may have killed, but he isn’t a murderer at heart.”
Cristiano snorted. “You still believe that?”
I supposed I couldn’t. If he was willing to lie and deceive so thoroughly, then it was likely he’d also created himself a new persona.
“And how about you, mariposa?” he asked. “Are you a killer? If I ask you to knot my tie, will you try to strangle me with it?”
I turned as he tucked his dress shirt into his pants and responded wryly, “If I thought I could get away with it.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He stepped toward me, took my waist, and lifted me onto the island in the middle of the closet. “Do you know how?”
“I learned when I was nine.”
He spread my knees, and my dress rode up as he settled himself between my legs. He smelled of the same soap I did and the cedar shampoo in his shower. “Nine?” he asked.
“My father taught me how to do Diego’s tie for my mother’s funeral.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I see.”
As I pulled the wide end up, he lifted his chin and kept it there even after I’d looped the tie and tightened the knot.
“Give me your hand,” he said. When I did, he brought my fingers up and pressed them gently to the hollow of his neck, under his Adam’s apple. “Remember I said we all have the same weak spots?”
“Yes.”
“This is one. The trachea—or windpipe. If your attacker ever exposes this to you, hit him here.”
“I would think higher.” I moved my hand up to his Adam’s apple. “Wouldn’t this be worse?”
“No.” He stretched his thumb away from his other four fingers to show me the webbed curve between them. He held it to the middle of my throat and squeezed. “If I’m attacking you, there’s no chance in hell you’re going to be able to strangle me.”
“You’d be surprised at the strength that comes with a rush of adrenaline.”
“Natalia, I can crush a skull. You’re not going to win unless you’re strategic.” He contracted his hand even tighter. “See how much effort it takes? Do you feel anything?”
“Not really.”
He lowered his grip, pressing his palm into the base of my neck, and immediately, I was choking. Alarms fired in me, my hands flying up to grab his forearm just as he released me. “You felt that,” he said.
I moved my fingers to my throat as my heart pounded, the terrifying sensation lingering. “Right away.”
He took my hand, spreading it into an L-shape the way his had been. “It has the same effect on me that it does on you. You can hit someone there—hard—to incapacitate or disorient them, giving yourself time to run or do more damage.”
He slid his hand under my jaw and pressed his thumb and index finger into the sides, where I’d been taught to take my pulse. “These are your carotid arteries. You can strike them to do damage, but if you have a knife, even better. Cut both of them at the same time.”
My throat constricted, and I struggled for my next breath. Cristiano had an unsettling obsession with throat-related murder. “At the same time?” I asked. “How?”
“Don’t just stab your assailant in the neck. Stab through it.”
I inhaled sharply with the gruesome mental image, but also—I could barely admit in the depths of my mind—embarrassment that his savagery was a turn-on. His hand was hot and tight around my neck. I wrapped mine around his wrist, not to pull him off this time, but to try to channel the utter strength he held against an opponent. A beat passed between us. “How many men have you strangled?” I asked softly.