“Shit.” Any illusion of calm deliberation shatters: he rounds the foot of the bed and comes at her full tilt, bare feet thudding into carpet. She hits the window with a dull smack and ping-pongs off, bringing him up short for a fragment of a second. The time for looking her in the eye, trying to get a read, that's over; he's just registering her trajectory.

He strides to her. Swift and alert and somehow disciplined, he tries to seize her wrist with one hand—then bring the blade of his free hand to her upper arm, forcing the bone and gristle there into her muscle just above the freshly bruised elbow. Should he succeed in making the hold he'll leverage it, twisting her arm forward in an attempt to bring her to the floor.