She shot up off the divan at the sounds of the unmistakable knowledge that someone was now inside her apartment, adrenalin shooting through her entire body.

Instinctively, she reached for the phone sitting on the end table, even having time to dial the first two numbers before the large, menacing shape was upon her.

A tall bulk of a man towered over her, soft leather gloves slipping effortlessly about her throat. She gasped at the strength behind the deadly touch, iron fingers tightening, restricting her airway instantly, pain surging into the fragile tendons of her neck muscles.

Black spots danced before her eyes as a white haze beckoned her into its quiet intensity.

She clawed at the immovable talons but sensed it was a losing battle even if she had no intention of giving up.

All her good intentions seemed for naught, for her assailant was just as determined and a hell of a sight more skilled in the ways of such an art.

But just as rapidly as the assault began, the pressure was released and she was sent sprawling backward, off balanced and falling, gasping for air.

She landed with a sharp thud on the hardwood floor between the divan and coffee table, her entire right side taking the brunt of contact, the left side of her head cracking ominously against the edge of the opposite end table, sliding the heavy object a good three feet across the room, the fragile lamp it housed tipping over, crashing into a million pieces as the delicate globes hit the floor.

The blow stunned the woman. She struggled to maintain consciousness, vaguely aware of another more violent struggle taking place very close by.

She tried to sit, her head throbbing painfully, her vision blurred and unfocused, a sharp piercing ache permeating her entire being.

Two mammoth bulks weaved and swayed, shifting about in the darkened rooms. There was dim light but she could not phantom the source.

She instinctively shrank away from the sounds of fisticuffs, forcing herself erect, knowing she must somehow escape this heinous moment but she was wobbly, her steps uncertain and misdirected.

She staggered forward, bracing herself against the divan and coffee table as best she could. Her eyes fell on her notebook still laying where she had dropped it, on the cushion of the couch.

She snatched it close, holding it to her bosom, lunging for the doorway, for the light from the hallway illuminated the arched entrance.

A garbled sound escaped her throat as a thick, muscular arm encircled her neckline yet again, the strangling pressure worse than before.

She could feel hard muscles and smell the stench of sweat and alcohol on the fabric of the sleeve, gagging from the overpowering scents.

A mammoth hand cupped the side of her head, steely fingers bending it at an impossible angle, her hair pulled hurtfully, forcing stinging tears to her eyes.

A loud ‘pop’ exploded by her right ear and suddenly, she was free, gulping in copious amounts of life-giving breaths, coughing spasmodically, weeping freely, fear and shock traversing her entire system.

She clawed at her throat, attempting to help it ease air down its painfully swollen passageway, her skin raw and raked with red, unsightly scrapes and marks from the buttons on her assailant’s jacket sleeve.

“Don’t force it.” A velvet fog of a whisper soothed and calmed. “Take deep, slow breaths...” strong hands guided and supported her shaking form.

She tried desperately to follow the directions, but her body craved oxygen, and her throat seemed closed off permanently, the air she was getting in miniscule in nature, at best.

“Slow...deep...steady...”

He was leaning over her, his hands supporting her weight for she had sank down on the divan, her knees on the floor, her body rigid...more than tense.

“They know where you live.” The man whispered his urgency. “You can’t stay here.”

Who ‘they’ were...or ‘he’ was...she had no clue but something in his tone alerted her to danger and she tried very hard to respond.

“Good girl.” The compliment washed over her like honey on a hot bun and she flushed fully but did not understand the why of it. “Just lean on me.” He was guiding her, his touch gentle, his pace, slow.

It wasn’t so much the sound advice he offered but the matter-of-fact tone which halted any thought of refusal or denial on Amanda’s part.

She found herself meekly following his lead, and in minutes she found herself in the second-floor stairwell of her apartment building, concentrating on his footsteps that clicked smartly on the concrete of the stairs.