Page 18 of Guarded from Havoc

“You!” he screams once he spots Erik. “You did this!” And he rushes forward, rage all over his face. “I’ll kill you!”

Erik’s voice drops to a warning growl. “Stop. Now. Before someone gets hurt.”

“Too late!” the man shouts. “Too late!”

Only now do I notice the large rock in his hand, half the size of my head.

“The rock,” I hiss at Erik. “He has a rock!”

“I know.” He pushes me back. “Just stay here.”

Then he puts his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m not trying to hurt you. But you need to put the rock down. I can help you get out of here.”

“Lies!” the man shrieks. Then he closes the distance between us, building in speed. The rock looms large in his hand, getting bigger by the second.

Even though I know Erik is bigger and clearly in better shape, panic surges again.

Eric’s unarmed. He was drugged and probably still dealing with lingering dizziness, just like me. And he’s saddled with trying to protect me. What if this crazy guy hits Erik in the head? Seriously injures him? Evenkillshim?

But Erik doesn’t seem to hold any such concerns. Or at least, if he does, I can’t tell.

Instead, he meets the man without flinching.

When the man tries to hit Erik with the rock, Erik effortlessly deflects it.

Then he does this cool leg-sweeping move, sending the man crashing to the ground.

Before the guy can get up, Erik leaps on top of him and pins him down.

The man flails beneath Erik, bucking and kicking. Spitting out curses and unintelligible words.

Erik wraps his hand around the man’s neck, and seconds later, the man goes limp.

Though I know I was instructed to stay put, I run over to them.

Then I spot the blood on Erik’s shirt, and I lose what little cool I still had left.

“Erik, oh God, are you okay? Where are you bleeding? How bad is it?” I babble. “Should I use my shirt for a bandage? God. You’rebleeding.”

Erik gets off the now-motionless man and stands, turning to look at me. “Tate,” he says in a gently scolding tone. “You were supposed to stay put.Notcome over here.”

“But you’re bleeding,” I insist, gesturing at the red splotch on his chest. “Did he cut you? Did he have a knife hidden somewhere?”

He touches my arm, the warmth of his hand seeping into my chilled skin. “I’m okay, Tate. I’m fine. It’s not my blood. It’s from him.”

“It… it is?”

“Yes.” He pulls his T-shirt off, revealing a very broad and uninjured chest. “See?”

“Oh.” My voice goes small. “I just saw the blood, and I thought…”

“It’s okay.” A tiny smile curves Erik’s lips. “I’m sorry you were scared. But it’s nice that you were worried.”

“Of course I was worried,” I retort. “How could I not be? Do you think Iwantyou hurt? I?—”

“I know.”

Dragging my gaze away from Erik’s very muscly chest and—holy guacamole, is that an eight-pack?—I glance at the man sprawled out on the ground. “What about him? Is he… is he dead?”

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