Where the fuck is she? She was with her friend, heading for the kitchen, and then were so many fucking people, and I lost her.
I circle the kitchen twice, spotting neither Serafina nor Amara. The back doors are open, but a quick scan reveals people around an electric fire pit, a joint being passed around, none of them Serafina.
I make another sweep of the kitchen before accepting she must have slipped out, so I turn back the way we came, scanning the expanse of rooms. Music vibrates the walls and floors, echoing the exact sensation inside my head.
The people make it difficult to breathe.
The noise makes it difficult to think.
Serafina’s absence makes it difficult to…be.
Halfway through the house, my phone vibrates, her name flashing across the screen. I answer it immediately, heart pounding a bit quicker, because she wouldn’t call unless something was wrong.
“Serafi—”
I’m cut off by a scream, followed by two words: “Up…stairs. Help!”
Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I rush for the staircase and take them two at a time, ramming people out of my way. At the top, there are doors everywhere, but before allowing frustration to take hold, I slam open the first, catching two women in bed, neither of them Serafina.
When my hand grips the second door, a scream erupts through the music from the third—a sound I doubt anyone else is sober enough to pay attention to. I throw it open, taking in the scene.
Serafina’s pinned to the floor, her dress ripped down the centre and bra discarded. My next victim hovers over her, one hand on himself, the other gripping her thighs open.
Both freeze when I enter. He rears up, but without giving him the chance to say shit, not even to plead for his worthless life, I lunge.
Hehurther. He’s touching her. She’s crying.
And I wasn’t here to stop any of it.
I tackle him, yanking him off her with a firm punch to his face, the crack of his nose echoing though the room. I shove him to the corner, giving me a chance to see Serafina scramble out of the way, her limbs clumsy and unsteady.
“This isn’t your business.” He rotates his jaw, rubbing where my knuckles made impact.
“She’smy business,yebuchiy kusok govna.” Roughly, it translates tofucking worthless piece of shit.
I slam my fist into his face. Again. And again, my arm whipping back and forth with a speed, a strength, that’s never, in any of my training and jobs, been necessary until now. Not because he’s putting up a good fight—his attempts to block are pitiful—but because he hurther.
He dared think he could rape her, and there will be no mercy.
If I was a minute later…
If she didn’t call me…
My little curiosity would be a changed woman—and not for any right reason.
Twenty-seven years of a brain in constant overstimulation, and I’d live it all again to undo this moment for her.
I fist his shirt, hauling his slumped body closer. His head lolls, blood coating his chin and cheeks. One tooth looks broken, and blood streams from his mouth. It’s not enough to ease my rage, the static in my head, because he dared touch the only person who’severbeen able to calm the noise.
If only I’d brought my gun, I could end his life. The fact of my knife is a passing thought, the feeling of his blood on my knuckles much more victorious.
“What makes you think you haveanyright to touch her?”
His face is an utter mess, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. Not until he’s a corpse.
Until one thing stops me. One thing erases the red over my eyes.
Her voice.
