Page 5 of Guarded from Treachery

No. Yell for help.

Just as I’m opening my mouth to scream, a hand slaps across my face, stifling it.

No. No. No.

A voice hisses in my ear, stinking of garlic and stale coffee, “Don’t fight. You’ll only make it worse.”

My body starts to shake. Nausea surges again.

Then.

He starts to drag me backwards.

NO. Please, no.

All the horrifying stories I’ve read about on the news fly through my head. Trafficking. Murder. Assault.

Am I just going to let him do this without fighting back?

No way.

Anger thaws my frozen muscles, and I turn into a dervish. Kicking. Wriggling. Biting at his meaty hand. I punch the buttons on my key fob until the alarm on my car goes off and the headlights flash in a staccato rhythm.

“Stop it!” the man snarls, and he slams me into the side of the nearest car, sending a shockwave of pain up and down my back. All the air is knocked out of me, and in that breathless moment, he rips the keys from my hand and silences the car. “Stupid bitch!”

Then he picks me up and starts to run.

NO!

Tears stream down my cheeks. My heart pounds so hard I fear a heart attack.

And then.

Someone shouts, “Get your hands off her!”

A second later, there’s a blur of movement.

Another man—tall, muscular, his expression hard with fury—attacks.

Not me. No. All his attention is focused on my captor.

The dark hero—all in dark clothes, dark hair, tanned skin, and eyes like coal—launches himself at the man holding me.

Arms and legs move so quickly I can’t discern one move from the next, but to my shell-shocked brain, it looks like some sort of karate. A fist flies into my captor’s face, and a moment later, I’m pulled from his arms.

My dark savior sets me behind him and goes after the awful man again, knocking him to the ground with a sweep of his leg.

The man who grabbed me is huge, almost a foot taller than my five foot five and easily twice my weight. But instead of fighting back, like I’m afraid he’ll do, he leaps to his feet and starts running in the opposite direction.

“Shit!” This mysterious stranger standing in front of me curses, low and rough. Tension vibrates through his body. He twitches forward, like he’s about to run after the escaping man, but a beat later, he turns to me.

As he looks at me, his expression shifts from anger to concern. The intensity in his gaze softens, turning his eyes to a molten chocolate. In a deep, rumbly voice, he asks gently, “Hey, are you okay?”

“I—” But I can’t form more words than that.

Tiny lines etch across his forehead. “Are you hurt?” He stops. Frowns. “I’m sorry I let him get away. But I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

I want to thank him. Ask my dark hero his name. But my brain can’t seem to make my mouth work.

---