Page 6 of Stolen
But this time, when her heart races, it’s for a damn good reason.
She’s not alone anymore.
Two men stumble into the narrow alley, loud and careless, reeking of spilled whiskey and rotten testosterone.
I’ve seen them come in and out of the bar before, a couple of loudmouthed assholes with expensive shoes and cheap souls.
I slip deeper into shadow, every sense locked on her.
The silver thread between us hums so tight I can feel it in my bones.
This is the moment.
The moment.
I can barely make out her words as they corner her against the rusted dumpster, their voices low, slurred, and full of intent I have no patience for.
She raises a hand in warning.
Maybe to defend herself. Maybe to keep calm.
And then one of them reaches for her.
His hand brushes her cheek.
Casual. Presumptuous. Oily with entitlement.
Like she’s his to grab, to frighten, to use.
I see it in his eyes. The way his grin turns feral.
He touches her again.
And something inside me snaps.
I don’t roar. I don’t growl. I don’t announce myself.
But I move.
The air around me distorts as my magic pulses, dragging the shadows tight around my frame.
One second I’m watching. The next, I’m between her and them, a wall of rage dressed in the shape of a man.
The silver thread pulls taut.
Like it knows what’s about to happen.
Like it wants this.
The man who touched her recoils too late. I reach out and grab his wrist, squeezing just hard enough to feel the tendons pop.
His knees give out. He gurgles something unintelligible. And his body cries out.
“Let me make something perfectly clear,” I murmur, my voice like wind across a blade. “You’ve just made the last mistake of your life.”
The man whose hand now hangs useless from his wrist doesn’t even get a scream out. Not really.
I let go of his hand and give him a look—just a flicker of truth behind the illusion.
