A rush of satisfaction oozes through my veins.
Situation locked down.
Control regained.
And in less than five seconds.
The two would-be attackers twitch on the ground, moaning. Tomatoes continue their lazy roll across the asphalt, coming to rest against shoes and table legs.
Several onlookers stand frozen, mouths agape, shopping bags dangling from their hands.
I straighten my jacket, tugging the cuffs into place with a practiced motion, my heart rate unperturbed. For me, violence—as instinctual as breathing—requires no more thought than tying a shoelace.
But I admit that seeing these two young gangster wannabes on the ground, groaning and incapacitated, pleases me.
I shift toward a pale, wide-eyed Chloe and scan her for injuries.
She has one hand pressed against her mouth in shock. There’s a smudge on her bright yellow dress and a small scrape on her elbow where she must’ve caught herself falling.
Rumbling irritation tickles my chest, then fades.
The damage is minor. Acceptable.
“You okay?” My voice cuts through the silence that blankets the market as I offer her my hands and pull her up. She thanks me with a quick nod before straightening out her dress. Thenshe pivots and gapes at the whimpering, broken punks on the ground, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
As I watch, her expression transforms, fear dissipating into surprising resolve.
“Well, someone definitely needed a time-out. I hope they learned their lesson.”
“I’d say. But since I didn’t have one of your tiny plastic chairs, time-out wasn’t an option.” I can’t help but stare, astonished by her absurd response and unexpected resilience.
Where most would scream, cry, or demand answers, she stays right in character, reprimanding the men who attacked her as if they’re unruly children who knocked over a block tower during playtime.
An oddwhooshflurries through my stomach.
She’s ridiculous, but there’s clear strength beneath the construction paper and popsicle sticks.
I grudgingly acknowledge the smallest bit of respect for her ability to remain calm in the face of what just happened.
A murmur ripples across the gathered crowd. Someone calls the cops. The tomato vendor hurries around his table, asking if Chloe’s all right and offering her water while glaring at the groaning men on the ground.
I angle my body in front of her to shield her from the fallen attackers and the gathering crowd of onlookers. “We should go. Before the police arrive.”
Her brow furrows, a glimmer of trepidation passing over her face. “Shouldn’t we speak to them?”
“Trust me, considering the shape those guys are in, it’s better if we leave.”
She glances up at me, her expression transforming. Not with gratitude or shock but with a flicker of wonder that startles me. “Okay…” She gestures vaguely at the incapacitated men still sprawled on the pavement. “But I should ask. How did…”
“Basic self-defense.” I direct her away from the consequences of my violence. “Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head while bending down to gather her scattered produce. “I’m fine. Just surprised.” Her earnest brown eyes search mine. “Thank you. That was… You were… I mean, I think you broke his arm.”
“He’ll be fine.” I take the bag from her hand. “Let me carry these.” When our fingers brush, I feel the slight tremor in her grip.
Unacceptable.
As we drift away from the chaos, I keep her close, my free hand resting on the small of her back.
