Nimisha felt the second man's grip on her slacken—shock, instinct, the human animal's response to witnessing something that reminded it of its place in the food chain.
She drove her elbow back with everything she had.
He dropped her.
She hit the floor, scrambled, got her hands under her and pushed herself against the shelves, putting her back to something solid and her eyes on the room.
Bruno had the first man pinned, his massive jaws locked on the forearm the man had thrown up in defense. He wasn't tearing. Just holding, with the calm efficiency of an animal that understood the difference between ending something and controlling it.
The second man—the one who'd dropped Nimisha—had backed against the shelves, his eyes fixed on Bruno with the particular stillness of a person who has suddenly understood they are prey.
The third man appeared from around the end of the aisle.
He had a knife.
Bruno's attention shifted to him without releasing the first man—a kind of distributed focus that shouldn't have been possible, but the intelligence in those dark eyes didn't operate by typical rules.
The third man looked at Bruno.
Bruno looked at the third man.
The knife hit the floor with a clatter that echoed through the silent store.
Samarth's car covered the distance from Elysium to the bookstore in eleven minutes.
He'd been in a meeting when Abhay's call came through. He'd walked out of the meeting without a word, left three very important men sitting around a table, and gotten into his car with his heart in his throat.
The scene that greeted him when he pushed through the service entrance was one he would think about for a long time.
Nimisha, back against a shelf, knees drawn to her chest, her face the color of chalk. Her hair had come loose and her kurta was torn at the shoulder. One of her wrists was already darkening with bruising.
Bruno, stationed between her and three men who'd arranged themselves against the opposite wall with the cooperative stillness of people who had made peace with their situation.
Two of Samarth's security men—Prakash and Suresh—were on the floor near the entrance, conscious but zip-tied and sporting the beginnings of serious injuries.
The police hadn't been called. The bookstore staff had apparently retreated to a back office and were staying there.
Smart.
He crossed to Nimisha first. Crouched in front of her, forcing himself to look at her face before he looked at the men.
"Are you hurt?"
Her eyes found his. She shook her head.
She couldn't speak. He could see it—the words simply weren't there, shocked out of her.
He looked at her wrists. Her throat, where a bruise was forming in the shape of an arm.
Something cold and absolute settled into the center of his chest.
He stood, turned.
Two of his men—Abhay had arrived moments behind him—were holding the three attackers with the efficient courtesy of people who'd done this before. The third man, the one who'd dropped the knife, was talking already, words spilling out without prompting.
Samarth crouched in front of the first man—the one Bruno had held. He looked at the bite marks on the man's forearm with detached interest.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
