There wasn’t time to duck.
The hit landed; pain exploded from my lip and jaw upward until half my face seemed to feel the impact.
My eye watered, blurring my vision, but I was moving on instinct, striking out.
But somewhere behind the guy I was fending off, there was a crack, a curse, a loud thud.
Then a sound.
A growl.
Low, feral.
Another crack.
“Run,” a voice called.
The man in front of me short-circuited for a second, half turning away, then back.
He shoved me with everything in him, sending me falling backward, knocking over a metal trash can as I went down hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
It was only from that position that I saw the first guy on the ground, bleeding once again—worse.
The big guy grabbed him under the arms and started to drag him.
My gaze tracked up his shirt, seeing the deep red blood staining it, gushing, it seemed, from his lip and nose.
A shadow fell over me a second before I saw legs in front of me.
“It’s me,” Harrison said even as my brain put the pieces together.
My gaze slipped up.
His shirt was askew.
A button had been ripped off.
His knuckles, though, looked bloody.
“Not mine,” he said, catching me looking.
“I could have handled it,” I insisted as he offered me his hand.
“I know,” he agreed, his hand closing over mine when I placed it there, then pulled me to my feet. “But I hate an unfair fight.”
As soon as I was on my feet, his hand went to my chin, gently turning it toward the light so he could assess the damage.
“I’ll live,” I said, shrugging it off.
But as the adrenaline faded, the pain settled in. Sharper, harder to ignore.
Harrison dropped down, and I was so focused on the top of his head for a second that I didn’t realize what he was doing until I felt his hand gently on the back of my calf, pulling up, as his other hand held my shoe in place.
I stepped in, and we repeated the process for the other.
It was right then that I noticed a car slowing, the driver craning his neck to look at us.
Harrison stiffened.
