“If you make me part of that world,” I finally say on the stairs without looking at him, “I leave.”
“You won’t be,” he says. “Not again.”
“I mean it.”
“I heard you.”
He stops at my door but doesn’t enter. He knows better. He looks at me and says, “You are safe here. You decide the pace. If you need me, call. If you don’t, I will still be here.”
I nod because I know I’ll start to cry if I try to speak. I step inside and close the door with a soft click.
In the bathroom, I hold my palm under cold water until the sting and the redness fade away.
I take off the ribbon. I do not want it on my wrist tonight. Not after that room. The diamond bracelet joins it.
I put a hand over my belly. “You’re okay,” I whisper. “We’re okay.”
My phone buzzes.
I’m outside if you need me.
I don’t text back.
I take another hot shower and pull on a soft cotton sleep shirt that smells clean, not like gunpowder. I crawl into bed and breathe deeply.
Thoughts begin to line up.
He saved me tonight.
He killed tonight.
Though both are true, I have to draw a line. And my line is no performance violence in my home or in my sight.
He agreed to that, without argument.
I fall into sleep faster than I expect, jaw unclenched for the first time since the street.
I dream about nothing, which is a gift.
CHAPTER 35
DAMIEN
The street hums with post-holiday hangover, thin snow dusting the asphalt, smearing neon from shop signs into wet streaks of pink and blue.
My breath fogs in the air, sharp and fleeting, as the city exhales its late December chill. We’re on foot, moving through the same neighborhood as last night, the memory of the hospital hallway when she told me she was pregnant still raw in my mind. Cassandra’s hand on my chest, her voice steady, the weight of our unborn child a quiet pulse between us.
Four men materialize from the shadows, two ahead, two behind, their steps deliberate, closing the net. A hand yanks Cassandra against a broad chest while a knife flashes at her ribs, catching the streetlight’s glint.
My body goes still, the way a wire goes tight before it snaps. Hands open, palms up, I mark distances—five feet to the front pair, seven to the back. Shoes are worn sneakers, one with a loose lace. The knife is a six-inch switchblade, held low, too close.
“Easy,” I say, my voice level, eyes on the blade.
A small sound escapes Cassandra. Not fear, but outrage, sharp and defiant. The knife presses closer, touching the fabric of her coat. Something in me ruptures. Old, ugly rage, rising like bile.
My senses narrow. Sound tunnels to her breath, color drains to gray, pulse hammers in my temples, copper floods my mouth. My palms itch, fingers curling like claws. I move without thought, a cornered animal unchained.
The first man comes at me, and I hit him like a beast—elbow to his jaw, teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder, his head driving to the brick wall behind. He folds, limp like a discarded rag. The second lunges from my left. I sucker punch him, feeling cartilage crunch, then jam my thumb into his eye socket until he screams, high and broken.
