Then he shoots out his hand, not for my throat or my arms, but for the chain and locket around my neck. How can he possibly know that I have it?
No.
Desperation kicks in. It’s a hard-wired instinct from years of my father’s twisted “games” that were really lessons in survival.
I slam my elbow back, aiming for his ribs. I connect with a crunch, and air whooshes out of him in a satisfying grunt.
He staggers backward, but only for a heartbeat. He’s bigger, stronger, and he recovers too fast, wrapping an arm around my waist like a vise, to yank me off balance.
“Give it to me, bitch.” His breath is hot and sour against my ear. And he has some sort of accent. Eastern European, maybe?
His claws at my locket, tugging hard enough to make the chain bite into my skin.
I twist, stomping down on his instep—another lesson from Dad’s endless drills—but he anticipates it, shifting his weight.
Pain flares in my side as he tightens his hold, squeezing the air from my lungs. My vision spots. I claw at his arm, nails digging in, but it’s like scratching stone. He’s not letting go. Not until he has what he wants.
But he can’t possibly know about there’s something hidden behind the photo plate in my locket.
Panic edges in, but I shove it down.
Think, Lyra. Allie. Whoever the hell you are today.
My dad’s voice thundering in my head, I go limp—feigning surrender—then explode upward, driving the back of my head toward his nose. He jerks away just in time, cursing in a language I don’t recognize.
Thank God his grip loosens enough for me to suck in a breath.
That’s when I hear it—footsteps pounding the path behind us. Not random. Purposeful.
The thug hears it too. He hesitates, his hand freezing mid-tug.
And then the stranger from the coffee shop is there.
He sets his to-go cup down on the grass—deliberate, unhurried—like this is just another morning errand.
Then he moves. Fluid. Lethal. He clamps one hand on the thug’s shoulder. Then he twists the man’s arm back in a hold that looks effortless but makes the guy howl.
The attacker releases me, staggering as the stranger drives a knee into his gut, folding him over.
I stumble back, gasping, hand flying to my throat. The locket is still there, protected beneath my hoodie and shirt, warm against my pounding heart.
The thug recovers faster than he should, shoving off the ground with a snarl.
He swings wildly, but the stranger ducks, counters with a precise strike to the throat. My attacker chokes, eyes bulging, but he doesn’t go down. Instead, he manages to wrench free and bolts, crashing through the underbrush like a bull, vanishing into the trees before either of us can react.
Not even breathing hard, the stranger straightens. His dark eyes flick to me, assessing. Not pity. Not concern. Something sharper. Evaluating.
“You okay?” His voice is that same gravel-over-velvet rumble, but now it’s edged with concern.
I nod, even though my side aches and my neck stings from the chain’s pull. “I’m fine.” Another lie. But admitting weakness isn’t an option. Not to him. Not to anyone.
He scans the trees where the thug disappeared, then back to me. “That wasn’t random.”
“Yes, it was.” The words snap out before I can stop them. “Wrong person. Mugging gone bad. Happens all the time.”
He doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he steps closer—not invading, but close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him. Close enough to smell the faint hint of coffee on his breath, mixed with something clean and masculine that shouldn’t make my pulse stutter. But it does.
“If it was random, he’d have disappeared when I arrived.”
