Kolya
Her touch makes me twitch, and I almost react before I control myself.
The two men are barely worth noticing. They wear cheap leather jackets with too many zippers, and their greasy hair falls over vacant eyes. A crude snake tattoo slithers up the neck of the one on the left like a drunk worm. Not prison ink. Not even decent work. The kind of shit a sixteen-year-old does in his mom’s basement with a homemade gun and India ink.
The second man is even less memorable. Black hair. Pocked face. But just as suspicious.
They’re barely a step up from the market punks who tried to grab Chloe’s purse. Amateur trash. No real threat. Still, their posture and the way they keep shifting weight from foot to foot sets off warning bells. They’re inching closer, weaving between browsing mothers and retirees.
Snake Tattoo subjects Chloe to a slow, predatory appraisal, eyeing her like a piece of meat he’s deciding how to carve.
I adjust my position, blocking his line of sight with my shoulder. His attention flicks to me, then away. No direct challenge.
Coward.
“Do you think the yellow or the orange would look more fiery?” Chloe holds up two sheets of felt, completely ignoring the threat orbiting us. Her forehead furrows with concentration, as if picking the right color is the most important decision in her universe.
My attention never leaves the men as I watch Snake Tattoo whisper to his friend. Irritation prickles my neck when they both laugh. “Yellow.”
Does Chloe just attract this sort of chaos? First, those wannabe thugs at the farmers market, now these two. Random coincidences?
My gaze returns to her, so I can try to understand what they see. Young, beautiful, cheerful. Assuming the best about everyone. Not a hint of self-preservation as she smiles while lost in her own happy little world, oblivious to the bad that seeps across reality.
She’s a walking target.
Except, no way are these two in Hobby Hut for the yarn selection. And maybe they were in the sedan last night.
“Do you think we need green for the grass?” She turns the felt over in her hands, humming softly as she deliberates.
If she won’t protect herself, I will. “Green is fine.”
From fifteen feet away, the two men pretend to browse a display of wooden beads. Snake Tattoo glances between Chloe and the cash registers near the fabric cutting station. His friend’s hand dips into his pocket, then out.
Nervous. Or hiding.
“I need pom-poms too. For the smoke.” Chloe spins toward the cart, bumping the end with her hip.
The next part happens in slow motion.
The cart rolls backward, crashing into an endcap display. Bottles rattle. A wave of felt squares spill onto the floor, along with the pom-poms. A craft store avalanche.
Chloe lunges forward, attempting to stop the cascade. She only worsens the chaos, knocking falling packages into tilting stacks. Pipe cleaners and tiny beads scatter across the linoleum, transforming the store into a tripping hazard.
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry!”
People whip around to gawk.
A store employee starts toward us, his face a mask of retail resignation.
The two punks spot their opportunity.
Cutting through the disarray, they charge toward the cash register at the fabric counter, where a middle-aged woman counts bills into a drawer. As Snake Tattoo passes our aisle, he veers toward Chloe, reaching out to grab her arm.
Cold, clean rage slices through me, prompting me to act with no hesitation.
The objective is to stop them as efficiently as possible, not horrifically maim or question. Easy. Muscle memory and training take over.
I intercept Snake Tattoo, not with an elbow this time, but with a brutal, open-palmed strike to his throat. Cartilage gives way beneath my hand. He offers no resistance.
