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Not the red-faced guy. The one holding him up by his neck.Thatwas Bael.
Coming to my rescue.
And, seemingly, ready to kill the man who’d been in the middle of doing God-knew-what to me.
“Hey, you’re going to kill him,” I said, voice a little weaker than I would have liked.
“Good,” Bael snarled.
Good?
No.
He couldn’t have said that. No one said that when they were informed they were murdering someone.
“You can’t kill him.”
“I can,” Bael shot back.
There were a lot of theories about what adrenaline could do to normal, everyday people. Moms could lift cars off their children, for example. Which was likely why Bael could lift a man who was, arguably, much heavier than him, off his feet and hold him up there for much longer than seemed humanly possible.
“You’ll go to jail.”
“He was hurting you.”
“Soheshould go to jail, not a grave.”
“Agree to disagree,” Bael hissed as the man started to turn an alarming shade of blue.
“Bael, please,” I yelped, reaching out to place my hand on his arm.
It was like he felt it the same exact second that I did.
An electric shock at the contact.
But not a normal type. Not the static electricity that gave you a little jolt, surprising, but not all that impressive. No. This felt like I’d stuck a metal object into a socket. It moved from my arm and through my whole body.
“What’s going on over here?” another voice called as Bael’s arm suddenly dropped, depositing my attacker onto the ground where he rolled onto all fours and gasped for breath.
“This man was attacking the professor,” Bael said, waving toward me as one of the campus security officers was walking up, his baton drawn.
The officer’s gaze slid to me, looking me over, then seeing my books and such scattered all around.
“Okay,” he said, going to the man to slip on cuffs as he called it into his little radio thing.
I could feel Bael’s intense gaze on me, and I could only avoid looking at him for so long. When my gaze flitted up, I saw his eyes doing that strange red glowing thing again. A muscle in his jaw was so tight that it was twitching.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice a rumbling sound that seemed to shiver through my body.
“I, uhm, my head,” I said, my hand suddenly reaching up to touch it. Now that the adrenaline was waning, the pain was setting in.
I didn’t expect for Bael’s hand to lift, to brush mine away, and carefully trace his fingers over my temple and down the side of my eye.
“You’re bruising,” he told me.
That made sense.
“My face collided with the car,” I admitted as a migraine started behind my eyes.
