Normally, when I’m alone, I pay better attention to my surroundings, but being late has me off-kilter, so I don’t notice the man step in front of me until I’m smashing right into him.
His scent is off, sour, like milk that’s far past its expiration date. He’s saying something, but I can only pick up his deep timbre, not what he’s actually saying. Fucking implant. I wish they would just take it out.
I take a step back, my eyes rapidly scanning the area, but no one’s around. Just beyond him is the building I’m going to.
His lips are moving fast, too quickly for me to figure out what he’s saying. Is he lost? Is he asking for directions? I shake my head and step to the side, intending to move past him. But he matches my movements, blocking me.
His face is full of rage, his hands waving as he continues to say things I don’t understand.
I sign, hoping maybe, just maybe, he knows sign language or gets the clue that I have no idea what’s going on.
I don’t understand. I’m deaf.
My hope is that even if he doesn't know what I’m doing, he’ll back off. He doesn’t. He gets redder, angrier, leaning closer into me. When I move, he moves.
My hands move rapidly, my heart pounding in my chest, as I again tell him I’m deaf. I try to move around him, but he doesn’t let me. I move backward now, hoping to escape him or thatsomeone will see what’s happening and rescue me. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
I’m deaf.I sign more frantically this time, but he keeps going, stepping into my space, pushing me further back until my back hits a cold brick wall. The folder slips from my grip, scattering papers across the sidewalk. My pulse spikes. I try to slide around him, but he blocks my path, slamming a hand near my shoulder, pressing against me with wild eyes.
What does he want? He’s an alpha; I can feel the dominance pouring from him.
I can’t breathe. Panic takes over; I signstopagain and again, but he doesn’t care. I told Benton I could take care of myself, but this proves I can’t. Someone’s attacking me and I’m helpless to defend myself, my own body betraying me, preventing me from even screaming, no matter how low or frail it may come out.
His body is flush with mine, his hot breath drifting across my skin. I press my eyes tightly together, not wanting to see what he plans to do with me.
Then—suddenly—he’s gone. His body jerked away from me so violently I lose my balance, and can barely catch myself. The air floods with peach and honeydew, sharp and overripe with anger, so strong it burns the back of my throat. When I open my eyes, I see him hitting the pavement hard, a man on top of him, his back to me as pounds him violently with his fists.
I should be running, but I’m frozen in place. Then the newcomer stands, turning toward me. A familiar face staring back at me.
Korbin. Korbin fucking Brooks.
He’s covered in sweat. My eyes drop to his fists, the blood coating his knuckles. He saved me.
The man who attacked me takes Korbin's moment of distraction to scramble away, limping down the street, leaving blood and crumpled papers in his wake. Korbin stands beforeme. He’s massive up close, with dark hair plastered to his forehead, brown eyes burning with rage. He glances at me, his eyes roaming my body as if he’s looking for any sign of injury. Neither of us moves. I’m shaking too hard to sign or try to utter a word. Not that I’m sure I would speak. When I needed my voice the most, it failed me.
All I can do is stare at him. My mind races with all the what-ifs he just saved me from.
My eyes move to the papers scattered across the ground. The ones I needed to drop off that are now everywhere. I kneel down, hastily picking them up, cramming them one by one back into the folder. I don’t care if they’re wrinkled. Why should I, when some of them have blood on them?
Korbin bends too, picking up a page that landed near his boot. He hesitates, then holds it out to me—broad, bloodied knuckles against the white paper. I take it delicately, our fingers brushing for half a second before I shove it into the folder with the rest. His scent rolls over me again, but softened now, the sharp edge of anger gone, replaced by something steady and grounding. His alpha presence settles around me like a shield, and for the first time since it happened, my chest loosens enough to breathe.
I’m safe now. Because of him. The enemy of my brother.
Only when I have all the papers do I stand, clutching the folder tightly to my chest. I lift my hand, palm open toward me, fingers extended, thumb out. I rest the tips of my fingers to my lips, and then move them away toward Korbin.Thank you. A smooth and gentle motion that I’m sure he doesn’t know what I’m telling him.
He just looks at me, confused. I’m not sure what else to do. Maybe I could hug him, but what would he read into that? Would it be weird? How else do you thank the man who just saved your life?
But there’s a question I want the answer to. What the hell is he doing here?
I know it’s Scorpion territory, and it makes sense for him to be here more so than me, but this isn’t the rink. And how is he here at the exact time I need help?
I don’t even want to think about what would’ve happened if he wasn’t here. If he hadn’t been walking by or whatever he was doing at this very moment. Because of all the people in Scorpion territory—of all the alphas who could’ve stepped in—it had to behim.
He shouldn’t have been here. I should thank him again. Or run. But all I can do is stand there, clutching the folder and wondering why the man my brother hates most just saved my life.
21
Korbin
