Page 9 of Protected from Torment

No, I haven’t seen her room. But I’m sure it’s just like mine, with a door that could be jimmied open by a piss-poor burglar in no time. It doesn’t worry me personally, because after twenty-plus years in the Army and two as a security specialist for Blade and Arrow Security, I’m more than capable of defending myself.

But Melissa…

I can picture it: one of the drunk locals slipping something in Melissa’s drink and taking her back to her room to take advantage of her. Or just waiting until it’s late and breaking into her room, overpowering her, and⁠—

Fuck.

There’s no way I’m letting them hurt her. No way.

Picking up my pace, I hurry over to Melissa’s table, cutting the local off on the way. When he realizes my intention, he grabs my arm from behind and growls, “Do you mind? I was here first.”

I spin around to face him. In a low tone that threatens violence if he doesn’t obey, I growl, “Back off. Don’t make me tell you again.”

His posture, which was puffed up in anticipation of a fight, sags. “Who do you think you are?” he mutters. “Some big-city punk who thinks he can do whatever he wants?”

“No.” I lean in close so he can see the promise of danger in my eyes. “I’m a man telling you to back off. And don’t even think about bothering her. I’ll know. And I won’t like it.”

He stares at me for a second before blinking. Then he takes a step back. “Fine,” he spits. “Whatever.” Huffing loudly, he turns to head back the way he came.

With that taken care of, I turn my attention back to Melissa. Her head is still down as she looks at her phone, so I’m pretty sure she didn’t see my interaction with the drunk local. I’d prefer it that way, since I’d rather not have her thinking I’m some weird guy with a savior complex who insists on protecting her when she doesn’t even know me.

I don’t have a savior complex, for the record. It’s just… I’ve seen a lot of really shitty things over the years. I’ve watched some of my closest female friends be victimized by predators. And whether I know Melissa or not, I won’t just stand by and let it happen to her.

Could the drunken local have had innocent intentions? Maybe. But my gut says no. And one thing I learned in my years in the Army is to always listen to my gut.

I work to tamp down my anger as I approach Melissa’s table. By the time I arrive, I’ve managed to relax my jaw enough to smile. Keeping my voice low, so I don’t startle her, I say, “Hey, Melissa.”

She still jolts a little, making me feel guilty again. But she quickly hides it as she looks up at me. “Tyler?”

Feeling suddenly awkward, I shift on my feet. “I saw you over here, and I thought I’d come over to say hi. See how you’re feeling.”

“Feeling?” Her brow scrunches up. “What do you mean?”

“After everything that happened before. I know you got some scrapes and probably some bruises...”

My old friend, guilt, slams into me again. “I’m sorry about that,” I add. “Really. I didn’t mean to hurt you when I knocked you down.”

Melissa stares at me for a second. Then she snorts, and shit, it shouldn’t be cute, but it is. “Tyler,” she says, “if you hadn’t gotten me out of the way, I’d be worrying about a lot worse things than a few bruises and some road rash.”

“Still.” The thought of her skin all raw and hurting… It makes me feel terrible.

No. It makes me want to track down the asshole who almost hit her and teach him a lesson or two. Make him pay for almost killing Melissa, instead of the slap on the wrist he’s sure to get from the police.

Although… it doesn’t have to be that way. I bet I could hack into the police database and add a few extra charges. Or I could change the results of the blood test he took at the scene to make it look like he was drinking and driving.

Would it be legal? No.

Would it be justice? Possibly.

“I’m okay,” Melissa says, interrupting my plans for vengeance. “Really. And anyway, I’ve had worse. You should have seen my legs after Oscar forgot himself and went after some squirrels. He must have dragged me a good ten feet or so.” She stops. “Anyway. Are you okay?”

I cock my head in confusion. “Am I? Of course. I was wearing pants and a long-sleeved shirt. So my skin was protected.”

Why I was wearing pants in the middle of summer is a question I’m not delving into right now.

“I just noticed you limping,” she replies. Concern darkens her gaze. “Especially after you helped the man in the water. So I thought you might have triggered an old injury.”

My respect for Melissa grows even more. In all the chaos of the accident, she still found the time to check up on me. To worry because she thought I was hurt.