“Who’s asking?” I croak.
The man doesn’t answer. He just moves.Fast.
Before I can process what’s happening, his hand clamps hard around my upper arm. The cane clatters to the pavement.
“Let go of me!” I yank backward, but his grip is iron.
He drags me toward the sedan’s open rear door. My sneakers scrape against the pavement as I try to plant my feet, but my injured knee buckles and I collapse forward instead.
“Help!” I scream. “Somebody help me!”
The dad at the playground looks up. The old man feeding pigeons stands. But they’re too far away, and this is happening too fast.
The man shoves me toward the car. I grab the door frame with my bandaged hands, ignoring the pain that screams through my palms. I won’t make this easy, even if it kills me.
“Get in the car,” he growls.
“Fuck you!”
I kick backward with my good leg, aiming for his shin. My sneaker connects, and he grunts, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Instead, he pushes harder. My ribs slam against the car frame. The world reels as he tries to fold me into the backseat.
I’m still clawing at the door frame, ribs screaming where they’re crushed against metal, when I hear the footsteps.
I recognize them—because I heard the exact same ones yesterday.
The man’s grip on me loosens just a fraction, just enough for him to turn his head—and then he’s gone.
I meangonegone.Ripped away from me like a tornado snatched him up.
I stumble backward, catching myself against the car, and watch as Bastian tackles the man to the pavement. It’s not like the movies. There’s no dramatic music, no slow-motion choreography. It’s fast and brutal and horrifyingly efficient.
Bastian’s fist connects with the man’s jaw with a sickening crack. The man tries to block, but Bastian is relentless. He moves like someone who’s done this before. Someone who knows how to hurt people.
A knee to the ribs. An elbow to the temple. The meaty, thudding smack of knuckles on flesh. Bastian kneels on the man’s torso, one hand fisting in his collar, the other pulled back for another strike.
“Touch her again,” Bastian snarls, “and I’ll fucking kill you.”
The man spits blood. “You don’t know who you’re?—”
Bastian hits him again. The man’s head snaps to the side, and he goes limp.
Just like that, it’s over.
Bastian stands, chest heaving, knuckles already swelling. There’s blood trickling down his split lip and some more on his shirt, though I don’t know if it’s his or the other guy’s. His hair is wild, his eyes wilder. He looks like something feral that’s been caged too long and finally broke free.
He turns to me—and I flinch.
I don’t mean to. But I do.
That triggers something in him. A flinch of his own, sort of. Like a wince of regret as he comes back down to earth.
“Are you okay?” That savage harshness is gone now. All that rage is bottled back up. But I can see his hands shaking.
The dad from the playground has his phone out, probably calling 911. The old man with the pigeons stands frozen, mouth hanging open. I should answer Bastian, I know I should, but I just can’t make my lips move.
Bastian approaches me and puts both hands on my shoulders. “Eliana. Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head. My ribs ache where they hit the car, and my knee is screaming again, but I’m okay. I think.
