"Turn. Around."
Something in my voice must convince him I'm not bluffing, because he turns. His hands shake as he puts them behind his back.
I pull out my cuffs and secure his wrists. The familiar click of metal on metal is oddly satisfying.
"You're making a mistake," he says, voice tight. "I'll sue. I'll—"
"You have the right to remain silent," I interrupt, beginning the Miranda warning with the same calm precision I've used a hundred times before. "I suggest you use it."
I key dispatch into my phone. "Dispatch, this is Dawes. I need a unit at The Lucky Tap, rear entrance. I've got a suspect in custody for battery and criminal trespass."
"Copy that, Dawes. Unit en route. ETA five minutes."
Five minutes. I can keep it together for five minutes.
I glance over my shoulder at Steph. She's pressed against the dumpster, arms wrapped around herself, breathing too fast. Her face is white, eyes wide with shock.
"Steph." I gentle my voice as much as I can. "You okay?"
She nods, but it's not convincing. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine." I turn back to the suspect, tightening my grip on his arm. "But you will be."
The back door bangs open, and Troy appears, followed by Ace and Levi. All three of them take in the scene—me with the guy in cuffs, Steph shaking against the dumpster—and their expressions darken.
"What happened?" Troy's voice is hard.
"This asshole grabbed Steph," I say flatly. "I'm arresting him for battery and trespass."
"Good." Ace crosses his arms, positioning himself between the suspect and the door. "Want us to stick around?"
"Backup's on the way. Can you make sure she's okay?"
Troy's already moving, crossing to Steph with careful movements. "Hey, Steph. It's just me. You're safe now."
I hear her exhale shakily, and it takes everything in me not to turn around and go to her. But I can't. Not yet. Not until this piece of shit is someone else's problem.
"This is bullshit," the guy mutters. "I didn't do anything—"
"You grabbed her." I lean in close, dropping my voice so only he can hear. "After she told you to leave. After you were kicked out last night. You came back and waited for her. You cornered her. And when she told you to get away, you put your hands on her anyway."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't respond.
Headlights sweep across the alley as a patrol car pulls up. The door opens, and Officer Martinez steps out—young, competent, someone I trust.
"Dawes," he says, taking in the scene. "What've we got?"
"Battery and criminal trespass," I say, walking the suspect toward the patrol car. "Grabbed the victim's wrist and waist after being told multiple times to leave her alone. He was ejected from the bar last night for the same behavior and returned tonight. Victim is Stephanie Walters, a bartender. I witnessed the assault."
Martinez nods, pulling out his notepad. "Does Steph want to press charges?"
I glance back at Steph. She's still against the dumpster, Troy standing nearby like a guard. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, but her chin is up. There's fear in her eyes, but there's steel too.
"Yes," she says, voice stronger than I expected. "I want to press charges."
Pride swells in my chest, sharp and fierce.
"You got it." Martinez takes custody of the suspect, guiding him toward the patrol car. "I'll need statements from both of you."
