Page 22 of Surfer's Paradise

Her mom was dead.

Her dad was an abusive motherfucker, in and out of prison.

She was a kid floating from foster house to house, slipping through cracks no one gave a shit about.

She wasn’t some princess locked in a tower, waiting to be saved.

She was a girl the world had already given up on.

And it cracked something in his stupid, selfish heart.

Because no one was looking out for Rosie Quentin.

No one except him.

And that?

That was maybe the only decent thing he’d ever done for anyone.

Which was why, right now, watching her sitting at a bus stop alone at 11 p.m., wearing a dress that made her look too soft, too breakable, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder like a goddamn target?

Yeah.

Not happening.

Isaac kept to the shadows, eyes locked on her.

Then he saw the guy.

A twitchy little fucker hunched over on the other side of the bench.

Thin. Unsteady. The kind of nervous energy that made Isaac’s pulse slow, his breathing sharpen, his blood go cold.

He saw the way the guy clocked Rosie.

Saw the way his head tilted toward her.

Saw the way her shoulders went tight.

Isaac’s jaw locked.

And then—

The guy slid closer.

Isaac’s vision went black.

He was moving before he even registered it, boots hitting pavement, closing the distance in seconds.

The tweaker didn’t notice until Isaac was right there.

Right in his fucking face.

“Hey.”

The guy flinched, blinking up at him.

Isaac smiled. Not a nice one.

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