Page 44 of Cipher's Baby Girl
"You just went," Richard snarls, grabbing my wrist in a bruising grip.
"I'm going to throw up," I insist, letting real panic bleed into my voice. "Please. In the bathroom or on the bed—your choice."
He releases me with a disgusted shove. "Make it fast. And leave the door open."
I stumble toward the bathroom, glancing back at Richard, now pouring himself another whiskey.
That's when I see it through the window behind him—a shadow moving across the yard. A tall, broad-shouldered figure approaches the cabin with lethal purpose.
Cipher.
My heart soars, even as fear for him grips me. Richard has a gun. If he hears them coming...
In that moment, I make my decision. Turning away from the bathroom, I lunge toward the kitchenette instead, grabbing the first thing my hand finds—a heavy cast iron pan left on the stove.
"What the fuck?" Richard lurches to his feet as I swing the pan with all my strength.
It connects with his shoulder rather than his head as I'd aimed for, but it's enough to send him staggering backward. The whiskey bottle crashes to the floor, glass shattering, the pungent smell of alcohol filling the air.
"You little bitch!" he roars, recovering faster than I anticipated, lunging for me with rage contorting his features.
I retreat, pan still clutched in my hand, but my heel catches on the edge of the rug. I fall backward, landing hard, the pan clattering from my grip. Richard is on me in seconds, his weight crushing me into the floor, his hands wrapping around my throat.
"I'm gonna make you pay for that," he snarls, spittle flying from his lips as his fingers tighten. "Gonna make you beg before I'm done with you."
Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as his grip cuts off my air. My hands claw desperately at his face, his arms, trying to break his hold. The baby, I have to protect the baby?—
The door explodes inward with a crash that seems to shake the entire cabin. Splinters of wood fly through the air as the frame gives way completely. Richard's head jerks up, his grip loosening just enough for me to drag in a painful breath.
And then he's gone, his weight torn away from me with such violence that I hear the sickening crack of bone. I roll to my side, coughing and gasping, my vision blurry with tears and lack of oxygen.
Through the haze, I see Cipher—but not the controlled, cold man I've come to know. This is something else entirely. Something unhinged, inhuman, and utterly terrifying.
He moves with preternatural speed and precision, each blow calculated for maximum damage. Blood sprays across the cabin wall as his fist connects with Richard's nose, shattering it instantly. Richard tries to fight back, landing a lucky punch that splits Cipher's lip, but it's like watching a mouse attack a wolf. Morosely comical and utterly hopeless.
"You touched what's mine," Cipher snarls, voice barely recognizable as human. He punctuates each word with a blow that makes Richard's head snap back, blood and spittle flying. "You put your hands onmy woman."
Richard's face is a bloody mess, but still, he spits defiance. "Your whore came from my house," he gasps. "She's my property?—"
The words end in a gurgle as Cipher's hand closes around his throat, lifting him off his feet with one arm. The display of raw strength is staggering, the muscles in Cipher's arm flexing beneath his skin as he holds Richard aloft, his feet dangling uselessly.
"Say it again," Cipher invites, voice deadly quiet now. "Call her your property one more time."
I should be horrified by the violence. Should be afraid of this man who can inflict such damage with cold, methodical precision. Instead, I feel only relief, only gratitude, only certainty that my baby and I are safe now. This is what Cipher is—a weapon, yes, but one pointed at those who would harm me. His darkness isn't something to fear, but something that protects what he values.
"Cipher," I whisper, my voice raw from Richard's strangling.
His head snaps toward me, eyes wild with rage and something else—fear? For me?
Richard takes advantage of the momentary distraction, reaching for something in his pocket—the knife he used to cut my zip ties. He lunges, blade glinting in the dim light.
Cipher moves with blinding speed, catching Richard's wrist and twisting until bone snaps with an audible crack. The knife clatters to the floor. Richard screams, the sound cut short as Cipher delivers a blow to his temple that renders him instantly unconscious.
Cipher stands over Richard's crumpled form for a moment, chest heaving, knuckles dripping blood—whether his own or Richard's, I can't tell. His face is a mask of cold fury, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his scar. Then he turns to me, and the transformation is startling.
The rage drains from his face, replaced by concern so acute it makes my chest ache. His eyes soften, his posture changes, his entire being shifting from destroyer to protector in the space of a heartbeat. He crosses to me in two long strides before crouching down so we’re face to face.
His hands hover over me, not touching, as if afraid I'll shatter. "Are you hurt? Is the baby hurt? Did he—" He can't seem to finish the question, his eyes moving over me, cataloging every bruise, every mark.
