"Self defense?" John asked.

"Mm-hmm," Bella said, wondering if that term was misleading.

Rosalie had come back from a shopping trip, throwing a large plastic bag onto the couch. It'd landed with a hefty thump.

Edward's eyes had narrowed, mouth opening to say something when Rose interrupted him.

"Please," she'd said curtly, "trust me." Clearly, she'd thought something at him, because he closed his mouth again.

"Let's go outside, Bella. I want to show you something."

Giving Edward a curious look—and receiving an encouraging nod in Rose's direction—she'd followed.

In the wide space of the lawn, Rose'd said, "I want to teach you how to fight."

"OK," Bella said, swallowing nervously, and wondering why.

"Not that I think you'll ever need it, but I think it'll help you feel less anxious."

Then she'd made a quick step closer, startling Bella's hands up, and grabbed them with her own.

Bella's resulting panic was instant.

All of them knew not to do this—that it was an absolute trigger.

One of the worst.

Emmett had followed Edward outside, and was running verbal and physical interference. "Relax, she won't hurt her."

"No, she's upsetting her!" Edward hissed, trying to keep his voice low, so he didn't add to it.

"She's teaching her," Emmett countered. "She knows. Give her a minute."

The logical part of Edward's mind knew this was true, but the part that saw his mate in distress was scrambled with anxiety and anger.

In her panic, Bella was trying—fruitlessly—to fight Rose's grip.

"What would an attacker expect?" Rose kept calmly asking her.

Bella wasn't answering, struggling mindlessly still. The effort was exhausting her though, and the adrenaline's departure left her shakily resigned.

"What would an attacker expect?" Rose asked again. "This, right? You fighting?"

Bella nodded, trembling.

"What wouldn't an attacker expect?"

After a moment, Bella said, "to not fight."

"Exactly. What else?"

"For me to stay calm."

"Yes, and?"

"To let them do what they want to?"

"Keep going."

"To drop."

Rose nodded, and then let go.

Edward moved to come forward.

"Oh no," Rose said, "we're just getting started. Let her learn." She looked at Bella. "I know this is hard," she said facing her, "but there are things you can do. You won't be able to overpower Jacob, but you can absolutely outsmart him."

Bella swallowed again. They rarely named him, but Rose was right. She was still afraid she'd find herself face to face with Jacob, haunted by the helplessness she'd experienced that last time.

"Show me," Bella said, with more bravado than she felt, trying to let Edward know she was OK.

So, Rose had shown her. Simple things. A round slap to the ears was effective. Hitting the top of an unguarded foot—crushing toes. Small movements with large effect. All of them designed to inflict maximum pain with little effort.

"And," John asked Bella, "is it helping?"

"Yes," she said, "definitely."

"And how are things going on the intimacy front?" he asked next, shifting in his seat, tilting his head forward.

He watched the blush blossom on her face, taking it as a positive sign.

"Good," she said, much more shyly.

"I'm glad," he said softly, and then, pivoting on that positive moment, steered the conversation into harder places. "I received the complaint you made." He said this quietly, watching her carefully. "You've been through an immense amount of trauma."

"I don't want to talk about what happened," Bella said, forcing the words out.

"Of course, as you said. But, I did want to ask one question, if that's alright?" Seeing her wary look, he added, "it's one the police aren't allowed to ask, not anymore."

"OK," she said, heart fluttering with nerves.

"Was this your first sexual experience?"

It threw her. She'd been expecting something detailed. Embarrassing. Graphic. Something that he would attach some mysterious significance to.

She nodded, her confusion worn in the wrinkled wedge between her eyes.

"I ask because it helps me understand your circumstances," John said. "It can be frightening to have an assault as your only sexual reference point."

No shit.

"Why can't the police ask that?"

"Past sexual experience is irrelevant to the commission of a crime," John said, "and you don't want a police officer's moral sensibilities determining whose case is, or isn't worth pursuing."

No worry there, Bella thought, remembering Charlie's haggard look as they left the station. Not that his efforts were worth much.

"For instance, it would be perfectly normal to worry about sexual intimacy being painful," John said.

Bella nodded, remembering her conversation with Carlisle. Despite his reassurances, she was still afraid.

And she knew Edward was too.

"And it shouldn't be, when it's consensual, and when you're ready."

She hated that she was blushing.

"Have you made any progress, do you feel, in terms of building some of that trust around intimacy again?"

"Yes," she made herself say, through the growing bloom in her cheeks.

"Good," John said. "Do you think you're ready to add something to that?"

They already had, Bella thought, remembering the other day in the garden.

Watching her carefully, John asked, "or perhaps you already have?"

She nodded.

"That's good," he smiled at her, scribbling something onto his notepad. "Any thing that's been concerning since last week?"

Just my vampire husband, learning to manage his desire.

My father pursuing a werewolf. Or trying to.

And my sister in law, bringing home a giant bag of knives.

"No," she said.

"Knives?" Edward had said, with alarm, when Emmett had brought out Rose's purchases.

Bella had thought the same thing.

"Not like she can hurt us with them," Rosalie'd muttered, rolling her eyes at him.

"No," Edward had spat out, "she can hurt herself."

Bella was all for his loving concern, but she and Rose turned to him as one, frowns worn differently in each face.

Edward, Emmett thought, sometimes, it's just better to keep your mouth shut.

So he did, jaw clenched, when he saw the collection of blades Rosalie had acquired. Each of them came with a sheath, and a set of straps, so they could be worn in various concealed locations on the body.

On his wife's fragile, human body.

It was a test to remain silent when he saw what kind they were.

"They're switchblades," Rosalie explained, demonstrating the action. "You can't open them accidently, don't worry." She said this more for Edward's sake, than Bella's, "but you do need to be careful when you do open them. Always away from yourself."

Handing one to Bella, she had her practise opening and closing it several times before she showed her any offensive, or defensive movements.

"Alright, Emmett?" Rosalie asked.

He'd grinned at Bella, who had smiled back at him, until she realized what he was going to do.

When she'd come back to herself, she was in Edward's arms, still outside, Rose and Emmett standing several yards away, looking on worriedly.

Edward was growling, a low burr that Bella couldn't hear, but could feel vibrating against her chest.

"Sorry," she said, "I don't—"

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, Love," Edward said, and then pointed a dirty look in the direction of his siblings.

"They're trying to help, Edward," Bella said, "it just," she sighed, squiggling out of his arms, "caught me off guard."

"Kinda the point, Bella," Rose called, walking closer at a measured pace, eyes on Edward. "Most attackers don't give you advance notice."

"And there won't be any attacks," Edward said, "because they would happen over my broken body."

Rosalie sighed. "If this is going to help, it needs to be real, Bella. Do you want to try again? Maybe with Jasper?"

A shiver'd ridden up her spine, remembering her prior birthday. "Maybe tomorrow," she'd mumbled.

The tap of John's pen, a sign of his own thoughtful ruminations, interrupted Bella's remembering. "Can I ask you what will seem like a silly question?"

"Uh, sure?"

"You're familiar with the baseball metaphor for sexual intimacy?"

Who wasn't?

"First base, kissing, second base, heavy petting, third base, etc.?"

"Yes," she said, allowing herself to smile.

"I know this is tricky for you to talk about in explicit terms. Where are you, baseball wise, in your comfort level?"

Ah.

"Somewhere between first and second, I guess," Bella mumbled, simultaneously embarrassed, and relieved to not have to be so specific.

"I'm going to guess that some touches might be quite alarming, for you, having read the report."

The art of sliding his clients from ease to discomfort was clearly one John had experience with, and Bella felt like a fish, hooked and teased—and ultimately doomed to face things she had no interest in seeing again.

"Yes," she said, not wanting to elaborate.

His nod acknowledged her, mouth silent against the noisy scratch of his pen.

Bella's fingers twitched, arm flexing with the still unaccustomed feeling of the knife that was strapped to her forearm.

"You remember what we talked about with stimulus?" John finally said, looking up, clearing his throat. Catching her nod, he continued. "As you go back and forth between bases, keep in mind that it's about retraining your response—and that it will take time."

She nodded, understanding what he was suggesting, frustrated by the extraordinary blush that was painting her cheeks.

And it was frustrating. She wanted to be with Edward. To be pleasured by his touch. But, riding close up under that was the fear of feeling what Jacob had done. Remembering, as she now discovered she was able, the almost palpable substance of her memories.

"Reducing similarities in experience can be helpful, too," John said softly. "Putting yourself in a different kind of space. Different textures, clothes, lighting—anything that allows your mind to accept that this is different."

Like body temperature.

No problem there.

"Bodily position, too, has a lot to do with comfort."

At this, she looked up at him.

He made another note on his paper.

Man that was annoying.

Transparent as always, Bella's face registered her displeasure.

"You're welcome to read my notes, Bella, if you like," John said, holding out the pad of paper.

"It's OK," she said, shaking her head, then smiling a little. "Just—"

"Feels like someone's taking notes about you?" he grinned.

"Yeah." It was silly, she knew, but it felt better for having it out in the open.

She felt better for having a lot of other things out in the open, too.

"I um, told a friend, about what happened," she said. "In very vague terms."

"And how was that?"

"Good," she sighed, "really good, actually. A relief."

"Why do you think it was a relief?"

She paused, thinking about it. "I haven't really told anyone…" then she trailed off. She had. They just hadn't believed her.

The tears made her eyes itch, and she wiped at them.

"She believed me," she whispered. "I didn't tell her exactly what had happened, but she believed me."

The wave of anger that rippled up and over her was a surprise, and this blush was as singular as the emotion that produced it.

Her father had not believed her.

"Can you tell me what you're thinking of, Bella?" John pried gently.

"Angela believed me. Right away. He didn't."

"Your Dad?"

It was too hard to speak, so she nodded.

"Mm," he said sympathetically. "That must evoke some strong feeling."

Damn right it did.

"Are you still talking with him?" John asked.

Bella shrugged. "Kind of." Charlie had called, twice now, a few days between them. She could barely make herself offer him the most basic courtesies, and her answers to his questions had been almost entirely monosyllabic.

"Forgiveness is a long road," John said, glancing at the clock, "with large pot holes."

Gigantic craters.

"It's OK to grieve that, Bella."

That list felt long enough already.

"Same time next week?" John asked.

"Yes," Bella said, standing.

He kept a respectful distance, walking her to the door. Along with the weight of all the grief she carried, she contemplated the small, but sturdy piece of confidence she now held too, this emboldened by the several pieces of purposed metal strapped to her body.