A shock of panic—hard and fast and cold—shot through me. How could this have happened? I never take my guard down when I’m outside, and sure as hell not in a dark alley. And yet I’d been totally unaware of everything. I’d seen nothing, heard nothing, noticed nothing. From the moment we exited the club, there had been only Evan. I’d let myself go with him—I’d let myself fly—and everything had gone to hell. Fuck.
“He the one that horned in on your girl?” the lean guy asked.
“My girl? More like my slut.” Bruiser aimed his beady eyes at me. “What would your mamma say about you doing the nasty in a dark alley with that son of a bitch?”
“Fuck you,” I snapped. Or, at least, I tried to. Instead, the words stuck in my throat, trapped there when I spied the glint of the knife in Bruiser’s hand. A chill crept over my entire body, icy fingers trailing up my spine. I sucked in air, and tasted salt water. I closed my eyes, and saw blood.
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
I didn’t realize that I’d taken a step backward until I felt Evan’s hand closing tight around mine, locking me in place. I froze, taking shallow breaths, trying to concentrate only on the reassuring feel of his hold upon me.
He was order to my chaos, calm to my storm. Fear might have me tight in its grip, but Evan slipped out of its fist like butter. The alley—hell, the whole damn situation—was his to command.
“I think you owe the lady an apology,” he said smoothly.
“Fuck you.”
“I’d really rather not,” Evan said. “Now get the hell out of my way.” His voice was hard, his manner equally so. He took a single step toward them, forcing me to take a corresponding one. I bit my lower lip, then tasted blood. I saw Bruiser’s mouth moving, but I couldn’t make out the words. Though I knew I was looking at this dark Chicago alley, what I saw was the barnacled posts beneath the pier. What I heard was the crash of the ocean against the beach. It was as if I’d fallen into one of my dreams, and I couldn’t fight my way out of the nightmare.
Then Bruiser lunged, leading with the knife, and the sharp pierce of a scream ripped me back into reality. It took a second before I realized that it was my scream, and that in that minuscule amount of time, Evan had released my hand, raised his arm, and managed to block the oncoming knife.
“Shit, Chris!” the lean guy shouted as Evan twisted Chris-the-Bruiser’s arm behind his back and wrested the knife free.
“Motherfucker!” Chris snarled, but he didn’t struggle, and from where I stood I could see why—considering Evan’s grip, if Chris even breathed wrong, his arm was going to snap.
“You fucked up bad, pretty boy,” the lean guy spat, already in motion with his own knife tight in his hand.
In the kind of move that Hollywood directors probably spent weeks choreographing, Evan shoved Chris aside, spun toward the lean guy, knocked his knife arm out of the way, then thrust the tip of the knife he’d taken off Chris into the flesh at the base of the lean guy’s throat. Chris cursed and sprinted down the alley, leaving his buddy to Evan’s mercy.
Evan didn’t even spare him a glance, his attention focused entirely on the lean guy with the knife still twitching in his hand. “Give me a reason,” Evan said. “Give me just one reason, and I’ll slice through you like butter.”
“Fuck you.”
“Wrong reason.” In a move too fast for me to see how it happened, Evan yanked the guy into a clench, his face a wash of rage. Now the length of his blade was pressed to the lean guy’s throat. I saw a single drop of blood trail down his neck. “All I have to do is flick my wrist,” Evan whispered, the voice so soft and menacing it seemed to be inside my head instead of spoken.
The guy’s eyes were squeezed tight, and the knife he still held clattered to the pavement. I caught the pungent scent of urine and knew that he’d wet himself.
I heard a soft noise, like the cry of a child. At first I thought it came from the man in Evan’s arms. Then I realized it came from me.
I saw Evan’s muscles stiffen, saw the shift of expressions on his face, the way he brought the rage down. The way his chest rose and fell as he looked at me and gathered himself. Slowly—very slowly—he drew the knife away, and I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed quiet. The thought should have terrified me. It didn’t. This was Evan, and like Jahn, he’d do whatever it took to protect me.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Evan said, his voice like the low roll of thunder.
The guy didn’t waste any time. He took off down the alley, practically tripping over himself in the process.
Slowly, Evan moved to the trash bin and tossed the knife in. Then he came toward me, moving gingerly, as if I were a wounded animal. I didn’t understand the reason for his tentative approach until he crouched in front of me. Only then did I realize that I’d slid to the ground, my knees pulled tight to my chest.
“Hey,” he said, his voice as gentle as I’d ever heard it. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He reached out and stroked my hair. “They’ve gone. They’re not going to hurt me, and I’d kill them before I’d let them hurt you.”
I nodded, thankful for his touch. The pitching, tossing waves inside me began to settle into soft, undulating swells.
I reached out a hand for him to help me up, but he shook his head. “No. I’ve got you.”
Before I could protest, he had his arms under my legs and behind my back. I thought I should protest, but I couldn’t quite work up the desire. Instead, I curled against him, letting his steady strength soothe the rawness of my memories.