“Who sent you? Who are you?”
I don't recognize the bastard. He spits blood at me.
I hold him by the shoulders and slam him against the brick wall hard enough that his head cracks and bounces.
“I asked you a fucking question.”
“Fuck you,” he wheezes out.
I'm about to hit him again when I remember the victim. I glance over my shoulder and freeze. It’s a kid dressed all in black, backed up against the opposite wall, with wide, terrified eyes.
I turn back to the arsehole. I want to slit his throat right here, right now, in front of somebody who could report me.
The man in my grip tries to twist away while I'm distracted, but instinct takes over. I drive my knee into his stomach and let him drop.
He stays down.
Behind me, one of the men groans. I glance back and see him trying to crawl away. Without thinking, I step on hishand, grinding his fingers into the pavement until he screams.
When I look back, the boy has pressed himself flat against the wall.
Fuck. I'm not helping the situation. I haven’t given these arseholes half of what they deserve, but the lad's seen enough.
“Go,” I tell him. “Get out of here. Find somewhere with people. Somewhere bright.” He shouldn't be out here fucking alone at night.
He doesn't move. Of course he doesn't. Probably terrified.
The clouds shift. Moonlight catches pale skin, dark hair spilled loose from a braid, and I go very, very still.
Not a boy.
Christ. Not a boy at all.
I take her in the way a man inventories a threat, except she's… the opposite of a threat. She's soft and slight, bleeding from a cut on her cheek.
She's no older than eighteen, with wide blue eyes as deep as a winter night, staring straight back at me. There’s a scrape on her cheek, angry and red, welling with fresh blood. My vision tunnels.
They hit her.Those bastards put their hands on her and hit her hard enough to break skin.
My hands shake from something I don’t have words for.
The lass looks like she stepped straight out of a fairy tale, all dark hair and pale skin and red lips, with those wide, innocent eyes…
And me? She's staring at me like I'm the monster.
To be fair, I probably look like one, covered in blood—some mine, most not. Knuckles split. Shaved head. Scars. Ink.
And I've got some bastard slammed against the wall.
She's too young to be here. Too young to be caught up in whatever the fuck this is. Too young to be alone. My chest tightens, and I make a fist.
“Y’alright, lass?” I ask, my voice rough.
She doesn't answer, just stares. Still in shock, maybe. Can't blame her.
“I'm not gonna hurt you,” I say. “Do you know who these bastards are?”
Over my shoulder, I hear an engine.Bollocks. They've got backup. Course they fuckin' do.
