Still, my grip tightens around the strap of my purse.
Just in case.
The unease settles fully just as my fingers close around my keys.
Footsteps scuff behind me, too fast, too close.
I turn, heart leaping into my throat, and barely have time to register his face before a hand latches onto my purse strap and yanks hard.
“Hey!” I gasp, instinct taking over as I clutch the bag to my chest. Panic floods me, sharp and dizzying, as he pulls again, the force dragging me off balance.
“Let go,” he snaps.
I don’t. Fear makes me stubborn. Or reckless.
The strap jerks violently. My grip slips. I stumble, pain exploding as I hit the ground. Something sharp slices across my palm, and I cry out as warm blood immediately follows, slick and unmistakable.
My bag tears free.
The world narrows to breath and pain and the metallic taste of fear.
Then the night shatters.
An engine roars into the car park like a warning shot, raw and furious. A motorbike skids to a stop, tyres screaming, cutting off any chance of escape.
The man freezes.
Khai is already moving.
He swings off the bike in one fluid motion, helmet discarded, body a dark silhouette made solid under the hospital lights. He’s dressed in black, fitted t-shirt stretched tight across his chest, black jeans riding low on his hips, combat boots striking the concrete with lethal intent. His leather jacket hangs open, sleeves shoved up his forearms, hood down, nothing about him concealed.
He smells like danger, smoke, leather, adrenaline, like something you don’t survive by accident.
In two strides, he’s there.
His hand fists into the robber’s jacket and slams him back against a parked car with bone-rattling force. Metal groans. The sound makes my stomach twist.
“Wrong woman,” Khai says quietly.
There’s no shouting. No wasted movement. Just cold certainty wrapped in violence.
The man struggles once, briefly, before Khai leans in, murmuring something too low for me to hear. Whatever it is drains the colour from his face. Fear replaces desperation in an instant.
He bolts.
Empty-handed. Terrified.
Gone.
Khai turns to me.
Khai’s gaze drops to my bleeding hand, then lifts back to my face. Something dark flickers there, not anger, not fear, but a quiet, dangerous resolve.
His jaw tightens.
Heshrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders without asking, the leather heavy and warm, swallowing me in his presence. The scent of him surrounds me, smoke, leather, violence barely restrained, and my breath stutters before I can stop it.
His fingers close gently around my wrist, turning my hand so he can see the cut properly. Careful. Precise. Like he’s memorising the damage.
