I hit the second floor and see it immediately—her door, standing slightly ajar.
That’s all I register before I hear her.
A sound tears through the apartment—raw, strangled, desperate. It isn’t a scream. It’s worse. It’s the sound someone makes when they’re running out of air.
My vision narrows as I surge forward, tearing through the apartment toward the back room. I don’t slow. I don’t hesitate. I slam into the bedroom door hard enough that it crashes into the wall.
And there he is.
Straddling her.
His hands are locked around her throat, fingers digging indeep. Rowan is awake—fully, horrifyingly aware. Her eyes are wide, blown black with terror. Red blotches are already blooming beneath his grip, staining her skin. She’s clawing at his hands, nails scraping uselessly against whatever he’s wearing, fighting for leverage that isn’t there.
Her legs are thrashing, heels kicking against the mattress, trying desperately to buck him off. She’s losing. And something inside me snaps.
Without thought, I launch myself at him with everything I have. My shoulder slams into his side and the impact rips the air from his lungs. We hit the floor hard, bodies colliding, furniture cracking under the force. He grunts, surprised and off-balance, and that moment is the only mercy he gets.
I’m on him before he can recover.
My fists fly, fueled by something feral and uncontrollable. Rage burns white-hot, blinding. I feel bone under my knuckles. I feel flesh give. Hear the wet sound of impact as I drive my fist into his face again and again.
I don’t stop to assess the damage. I don’t care. Every blow is a message. Every hit is punishment for the hands that were on her throat, for the terror in her eyes, for the sound she made when she couldn’t breathe.
He tries to cover up. Tries to roll away. I drag him back and keep going.
Again. And again. And again.
I beat him like I mean to end him.
Someone yanks me back hard.
“Justin!” Miguel shouts. “That’s enough!”
I twist, try to break free, still reaching for him, still ready to finish what I started. Another set of arms locks around me, hauling me backward with brute force while Miguel drops his weight onto the attacker, pinning him to the floor.
The man barely moves.
He’s a wreck—blood pouring down his face, pooling on the floor, his breathing wet and uneven. The mask is half torn away now, hanging crooked, slick with red.
But it’s still there.
Still covering what’s left of his face.
And the sight of it makes my gut lurch all over again.
I freeze when I hear the sound.
A whimper. Thin. Broken.
Rowan.
Everything else drops away.
I tear free from my man’s grip and drop to my knees beside her, the room tilting as I move. She’s curled in on herself, gasping for air like her lungs don’t quite remember how to work. Her hands tremble violently at her throat, fingers pressing into skin already darkening with red marks. She’s shaking so hard it looks like one wrong touch might shatter her completely.
“Rowan,” I say, my voice rough, torn up, soaked in violence. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
It takes a second. Maybe two. Then her eyes lift and find mine. Something inside her breaks.
