Page 26 of Shattered

“Where are you going?” He asked, observing my hasty movements.

“I’m an adult. Do I have to report my movements to you now?”

“No, but?—”

I didn’t let him finish. Just grabbed my bag and walked out the door before I said something I’d regret. Or threw something. Both seemed equally likely.

The late afternoon air hit my face as I made it down. My ankle protested, but walking without crutches felt like freedom. Even if that freedom came with a dull ache that reminded me not to do anything stupid.

I needed space. Needed to breathe. Totally not to be in my apartment with Mr. Perfect and his color-coded paint tubes.

I ended up at one of Hector’s Valdez famous restaurants for dinner—this flagship location that had made him famous. Usually, eating here made everything better. The food was incredible, the atmosphere was warm, and I could always count on good service that didn’t feel intrusive.

Tonight, though, even the perfectly cooked risotto couldn’t touch the anger burning in my chest.

I paid, left a generous tip, and decided to walk for a while. The evening was cool, and anything was better than going back to my apartment where Axel Irving had probably alphabetized my books by now.

That’s when I heard it.

Raised voices from an alley. A man’s voice, aggressive. A woman’s, pleading.

I stopped, my legs going still against the pavement. Every horror story about getting involved flashed through my head—mind your business, call the police, stay safe.

But the woman’s voice got more desperate, and I was already moving.

The scene was exactly what I’d feared. A man had a woman pressed against the brick wall, his hand on her arm, his face too close to hers. She was crying, trying to pull away, and he was not letting go.

“Hey!” I called out. “Let her go!”

The man turned, and his expression went from anger to contempt in about two seconds. “Mind your own business.”

“I will once you let her go.”

“This is between me and my girlfriend. Walk away.”

The woman was still crying, still pressed against the wall, and I made a decision.

I’d taken taekwondo classes in college—three years of twice-weekly training that my dad had insisted on before he died. “The world’s not safe for women who can’t defend themselves,” he’d said. At the time I’d rolled my eyes. Now I was grateful.

“Last chance,” I said, positioning myself carefully. My ankle twinged in warning. I ignored it. “Let her go.”

He laughed—sharp and wild, like a hyena that’d had too much coffee.

Then he suddenly reached out in a blur. He shoved me.

I stumbled but didn’t fall. My ankle screamed in protest but adrenaline was a beautiful thing. Beautiful and incredibly stupid, as it turned out.

Okay, I’d thought about being cordial. I had even tried the peaceful route. But this guy had just forced my hand.

The first kick caught him in the knee. The second—thank you, muscle memory—caught him in the ribs as he doubled over. Even when I used my good foot, my ankle was on fire. But I kept moving. When he tried to grab me, I used his momentum against him, pivoting despite the pain shooting up my leg, and he hit the ground hard.

I turned to the woman, breathing hard, my ankle throbbing. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

She was crying harder, pressed against the wall, and I felt like a superhero for about three seconds before she screamed.

“What did youdo?”

I blinked. “I… saved you?”