“You’re hurt,” he says matter-of-factly.
His voice is low and rough, with an accent that curls around the edges of each word. He sounds Eastern European, Russian maybe. The sound of it sends a strange shiver down my spine.
“I’m okay,” I whisper. I don’t know why I say it. It isn’t true.
His eyes narrow slightly, as if he knows I’m lying.
His hand lifts, hesitates, but then he touches the side of my face with startling gentleness, his knuckles grazing my cheekbone. I flinch at the tenderness, not the pain. It has been years since anyone has touched me that softly.
He notices my reaction. His expression changes, like he understands that this isn’t normal for me.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
I nod, even though my knees are still shaking.
He steps to the side so I can move past him, but his body stays angled toward me, protective in a way that confuses me.
My bag lies on the pavement where I dropped it, its contents scattered. Before I can reach for it, he bends and picks it up, slinging the strap over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. I hesitate.
“You don’t have to carry that,” I protest.
He doesn’t respond, but he also doesn’t give me the bag back. Something warm moves through my chest. Something that feels a little like relief despite the danger.
He walks slightly behind me, watching the shadows, scanning the street, assessing threats I can’t see. His presence feels like a wall at my back. I feel more protected than I ever have in my life.
When we reach the bus stop, he stops with me. He doesn’t sit. He stands beside me, broad and immovable, as if nothing can touch me while he’s here.
I find myself studying him out of the corner of my eye. The cut of his jaw. The clean lines of his coat. The quiet menace in his posture that isn’t aimed at me. Not even a little.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
His eyes shift to me again. Dark. Sharp. Searching. “You shouldn’t be walking alone here,” he says.
“I had no choice,” I reply. “My car’s in the shop.”
“Then someone should be with you.”
“I can take care of myself,” I argue, though the words sound thin after what happened.
He shakes his head once, slow and certain. “Apparently not,” he says, and I don’t even feel embarrassed that I’m so transparent to him.
3
SAMUIL
“I’m taking you home,” I say.
“It’s fine. I can take the bus,” she argues.
I shake my head. “I don’t want you out here alone anymore. I will take you home,” I insist.
She nods even though she has no idea who I am. Trust, when given without logic, is rare in my world. It’s usually deadly. But she offers it anyway, and I find myself wanting to protect that innocence more fiercely than I should.
The sky opens up and rain falls heavy, dripping down the collar of my coat as I guide her back to my car. I wrap an arm around her back to steady her, and she leans into me easily, like she trusts me implicitly. I can feel the trembling of her muscles through her soaked clothes. Her hair sticks to her cheeks. She looks up at me as if I’m the only thing standing between her and the darkness waiting to swallow her whole.
I’m parked at the curb, the black sedan blending into the night. I open the rear door with one arm and ease her inside. She slides across the leather seats, her clothes dripping onto the leather. I don’t care. I close the door, walk around to the other side, and get in behind the wheel.
She watches me with wide eyes, silent, waiting. Her cheek is already swelling where she was struck. My grip on the steering wheel is too tight as I start the engine. I force myself to breathe normally. She’s out of the cold and safe. I have no idea what to do with her now, though.
