Then Scarface nods at his buddies. “Get him.”
They release me, and I stumble, catching myself against the side of my car. All three men rush at Grayson at once.
He moves, and my breath catches.
He’s like a blur. How is he this fast? My eyes can barely keep up. A knot forms in my stomach.
The first man swings his bat, and Grayson ducks under it, driving his fist into the guy’s stomach. The man goes flying backwards, hitting the door of a car before crumpling to the ground. I sink to my knees, eyes wide, watching this unfold like something out of an action movie.
The second one comes at him from the left, and Grayson spins, his elbow catching the thug across the jaw with a crack that echoes through the parking lot. The man falls down on the spot, unmoving.
I stay there, slumped on the ground, frozen.
Grayson is strong. Too strong. The way he moves, the way he fights, it’s not normal. These are big men, trained in violence, and he’s tossing them around like they weigh nothing. His body is all coiled power and fluid motion, every muscle working in perfect harmony.
Despite the fear, I feel something else: a flare of heat at seeing him fight.
Scarface lunges with the knife.
Grayson tries to dodge, but the blade catches him across the ribs. He grunts, stumbling back.
“No!” The word tears out of me before I can stop it.
Grayson presses a hand to his side where blood is already seeping through his shirt. Scarface circles him. “You think this is over? Come at me, pretty boy.”
Grayson is clutching his injured side, but his eyes are on the man.
I don’t think. I just move. Jumping to my feet, I grab the crowbar one of them dropped. Rushing forward, I swing it at Scarface’s knees. He howls, collapsing. I hear a car door slam, and five men come rushing toward us. My stomach sinks.
I don’t have time to react before Grayson grabs me by the arm and shoves me behind him.
“Stay back,” he growls.
The roughness in his voice does something to my insides that I’m too terrified to examine.
He tears through the men like they’re nothing, all fists and fury despite the blood spreading across his shirt. When the last man hits the ground, Grayson sways.
I run toward him, catching his arm. “You’re hurt.” I can hear footsteps and shouting. “We have to get away from here.”
I see Grayson’s eyes looking up toward the corners of the parking lot, and I realize what he’s searching for.
“There are no surveillance cameras here,” I hiss at him. “Now come on before you bleed to death!”
“I’m fine.” But his voice is strained.
“Yeah, you’re fucking dandy.” I hook his arm over my shoulders, trying to ignore the solid warmth of him pressed against my side. “Now come on. We’re going inside.”
“Miranda, I don’t need—”
“Shut up and walk.”
He does, leaning heavily on me. His body heat seeps through my clothes, unnaturally warm. We make it back through the ER entrance, and when a few concerned nurses look over, I wave them off and steer him toward an empty exam room, the same one I stitched him up in last time.
“This is becoming a habit,” I mutter, helping him onto the exam table.
“At least you’re consistent.” He winces as he peels his shirt off.
I should look away. I should focus on getting supplies ready.
