Page 4 of Hero Daddy

The beam cut weakly through the darkness, illuminating perhaps fifteen feet of path and woods. Shadows leapt and danced as I moved the light, transforming harmless bushes into crouching figures, branches into reaching arms.

Nothing was there. No one was there.

"It was probably an animal," I told myself, but the words sounded hollow.

The attack came without warning. Rough hands grabbed me from behind, yanking me backward with such force that my spine slammed against a tree trunk. The impact knocked the air from my lungs in a painful rush. My scream tore through the quiet darkness, primal and desperate, as my phone clattered to the ground.

A tall figure loomed before me. He reeked of alcohol, the sour stench of cheap beer mixing with body odor so strong it made my eyes water. His face remained hidden under a dark hoodie, a shadow where features should be. Only his mouth was visible—thin lips pulled back in a grimace that revealed yellowed teeth.

"Gimme your watch," he slurred, the words thick and wet. One hand pinned my shoulder against the tree with surprising strength, fingers digging into my flesh. The other fumbledclumsily at my wrist where my fitness tracker sat, its green LED blinking steadily like nothing was wrong, like my heart wasn't trying to punch through my ribs.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The world had narrowed to the pressure of his hand, the stink of his breath, the sound of blood rushing in my ears. Panic exploded in my chest, hot and electric, shooting down my limbs and making my fingers tingle.

"P-please," I managed, the word barely audible even to my own ears. "Take it. Just—"

He pressed harder, cutting off my words. "Shut up," he growled. "Nice watch. Nice ass, too." His head tilted, and though I couldn't see his eyes, I felt them crawling over me.

My breath came in short, desperate gasps. The burning in my lungs wasn't from exertion anymore but from pure fear. Sweat that had cooled on my skin now turned icy, sending shivers across my shoulders and down my spine. My mouth went desert-dry.

The man struggled with the clasp of my fitness tracker, his movements clumsy, coordination dulled by whatever he'd been drinking. His focus shifted momentarily from my face to my wrist. The pressure on my shoulder eased slightly.

Acting on pure instinct rather than any real plan, I thrashed wildly. My free hand clawed at his hoodie, trying to reach skin, eyes, anything vulnerable. My knee jerked upward with all the force I could muster.

It connected with something solid. Not his groin—I wasn't that lucky—but his thigh, maybe his hip. He grunted, a pained sound that gave me a second's satisfaction before his grip tightened painfully on my shoulder, fingers digging into the hollow above my collarbone.

"Bitch," he hissed, alcohol fumes washing over me. His hand left my wrist, abandoning the attempt to remove the tracker, androse into the air above my face. In the dim, scattered light from my fallen phone, I saw his fingers curl into a fist.

Terror unlike anything I'd ever known flooded through me, leaving me weak and shaking. This man could hurt me. Kill me. And no one would hear. No one would come.

I squeezed my eyes shut, a primal whimper escaping me. My muscles tensed, bracing for the impact of his fist against my face, my body going rigid with anticipation of pain.

But the blow never landed.

Instead, I heard a rush of movement—fast, decisive, with purpose. A dull thud followed, then a grunt that didn't come from me. The pressure on my shoulder suddenly vanished, the man's hand disappearing so quickly that I staggered forward, off-balance without his restraining force.

My eyes flew open, struggling to make sense of the shadowy movements before me. My attacker was no longer focused on me. He had turned to face something—someone—who had materialized from the darkness.

"What the f—" my attacker started, but the words cut off as his body hit the ground with a heavy thump.

I slid down the trunk of the tree, my legs giving way beneath me, folding like wet paper. My tailbone hit the ground hard, but I barely felt it. My body had gone numb, flooded with a shock that dulled all physical sensations except the thundering of my heart.

From my position on the ground, I watched as a broad-shouldered stranger moved with fluid precision in the dim light. He was slightly shorter than my attacker but moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what his body could do. My fallen phone cast just enough light to catch the edge of his profile—a strong jawline, the outline of wide shoulders, hands that moved with practiced efficiency.

My attacker scrambled to his feet, lunging with a wild haymaker punch. The stranger simply wasn't there when thefist arrived, having sidestepped with a casual grace that seemed impossible in the near-darkness. He moved as if he'd been trained to anticipate every move, reading my attacker's body with a fluency that seemed almost supernatural.

"Stay down," the stranger commanded, his voice deep and authoritative. It wasn't loud, but it carried an expectation of obedience that froze me in place as surely as if he'd pinned me himself.

My attacker didn't heed the warning. He charged again, a desperate, drunken bull rush. The stranger moved once more—three swift motions that my eyes couldn't fully track. A pivot, a sweep of his leg, something with his hands—and suddenly my attacker lay face-down on the ground. The stranger knelt above him, one knee pressing between my attacker's shoulder blades, one of the attacker's arms twisted behind his back at an angle that made me wince.

My attacker struggled briefly, then went still, a stream of muffled curses emanating from where his face was pressed into the dirt.

Only then did the stranger shift his focus to me. In the weak light of my phone, I could make out more details—a strong jawline shadowed with stubble, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that seemed to absorb what little light there was rather than reflect it. He assessed me with a sweeping gaze that felt clinical rather than invasive, checking for injuries.

"You're safe now," he said. His tone was gentler than the one he'd used with my attacker, but no less firm. It wasn't a question or a hope—it was a statement of fact.

I tried to respond, but my voice had abandoned me. My mouth opened and closed without sound, like a fish tossed onto shore. I remained half-sitting, half-sprawled against the tree, my legs splayed awkwardly before me, too weak to support my weight.

"Don't move," he told my attacker, applying slightly more pressure with his knee. "If you try to run, I'll dislocate your shoulder." Again, not a threat but a simple statement of fact, delivered in the same tone someone might use to describe the weather.

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