I countered with a low kick that buckled their knee and followed with a hook to their ribs that made them grunt behind the mask.
We traded shots. Both landing. Both bleeding. Both too stubborn to back down.
They were better than me. Faster and more skilled, reading my movements and countering before I could capitalize.
I was losing.
Then headlights cut across the alley, bright and sudden.
The attacker glanced toward them. Just a second of distraction.
I threw everything I had into a right cross that caught them on the jaw. Their head snapped back. They stumbled.
The truck door opened with heavy footsteps following on pavement.
Declan.
He didn't hesitate. He just came at the attacker like a freight train, driving his shoulder into their midsection and slamming them against the brick wall hard enough that I heard the air leave their lungs.
The attacker recovered fast and threw an elbow that caught Declan's already damaged eye. Blood sprayed, fresh and bright.
But Declan didn't stop.
I got back in the fight and moved in from the side, going for the attacker's exposed ribs while Declan had them pinned.
The alley was narrow. Too narrow for three people fighting. I had to get close. Too close. My shoulder brushed Declan's back as I threw the punch, felt the heat of him through both our shirts, felt the flex of muscle as he drove another knee into the attacker's midsection.
The contact sent electricity through me even in the middle of the fight. Even bleeding and hurt and fighting for my life, my body recognized his and responded.
The attacker twisted and broke Declan's hold. They threw a wild elbow that missed me by inches.
Declan and I moved at the same time. Both going for the opening. We collided hard, chest to chest, his body solid and hot against mine for half a second before we both adjusted, circling opposite directions to box the attacker in.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Adrenaline and arousal and fear all flooding my system in a cocktail I couldn't separate.
I needed to focus. I needed to stop noticing the way Declan moved, the way he smelled, the way his presence beside me made me feel safer and more dangerous at the same time.
The attacker came at me again with a fast combination that drove me back toward the wall. I blocked most of it but took a shot to the jaw that made my vision blur and my ears ring.
Declan was there. He grabbed the attacker's jacket from behind, yanked them off me, spun them around and drove a hook into their ribs that made them fold.
I caught my breath and watched Declan move. Watched the way his body shifted, balanced, controlled. Watched the sweat gleaming on his neck in the dim light from the truck's headlights.
He was fighting for me.
The realization knocked the air from my lungs. He was protecting me. Had followed me somehow, had shown up in this alley at exactly the right time, and now he was putting hisalready damaged body between me and someone who wanted to hurt me.
The attacker kicked back and caught Declan in the knee. He grunted and staggered, and I moved without thinking. I stepped in front of him and took the follow-up punch aimed at his head on my shoulder instead.
The impact rattled down my arm. I grabbed the attacker's wrist and twisted hard. I felt Declan move in behind me, his chest against my back for a second as he reached around to land a body shot.
The heat of him. The solid weight of him pressed against me. The smell of sweat and blood and the soap he used.
My lungs refused to work and it had nothing to do with the fight.
The attacker wrenched free and threw a spinning back fist that caught me across the cheekbone. I went down hard, hit the pavement hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs.
Declan was over me instantly. He stood between me and the attacker, taking the hits meant for me while I scrambled to get my breath back.
