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For a moment, she was frozen. He’dsavedher. She sucked in a breath, but everything hurt. Pain radiated from her chest, and the sticky warm feeling of blood seeping out of the knife wound made her dizzy.
She had to get up...she had to...
Lysias leaned over her, those golden eyes holding her still—but only for a moment. Because he reached out for the torn piece of shirt. “Where are you hurt?”
She pushed him away, tried to scoot out from his grasp, his gaze.
“Stop fighting, boy,” he said impatiently. “I’m going to help you,” he said so disgustedly, so authoritatively, she hesitated.
And in that hesitation, all was lost. Because his hands were on her where she bled, and all she tried to hide from the world was clear to him. She knew it when his hand rested over her breast—bound but not enough now that she’d beenstabbedthere.
He pulled back, looked at his bloody hand, then down at her. “You’re not a boy.”
She scurried out from under him, using his surprise as a means of escape. But there was nowhere to go. He blocked the only exit. So she stood, breathing ragged, the blood trailing down her chest and too much of her exposed. Who she truly was,exposed.
But she wouldn’t cower. He’d saved her from one threat, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t one himself. She had to keep fighting.
“You’re not even a girl,” he said, studying her critically. “You’re a woman.”
Lysias did not often find himself shocked. In fact, he could not remember the last time someone had pulled such a con over on him.
Of course, he’dknownsomething was off about the boy, but he had not considered Al might be awoman.
She tilted her chin upward, all challenge. She did not speak. Those dark eyes looked at him with pure hate. But pain also swirled in their dark depths.
He had already instructed his guard to take care of the assailant, so it was only he and Al—thewoman—standing in this dingy alley in a poor, dangerous neighborhood of Athens.
He circled her, but she moved as well, never allowing him to be at her back. Smart woman.
She had survived on the streets for some time, he supposed, pretending to be a boy, though she’d narrowly escaped a gruesome end here. Intriguing.
But before he could work through all this and what it might mean, she needed medical attention. “Come,” he said, holding a hand out to her to encourage her obedience.
She did not take it. She clutched her torn shirt together and studied his hand as suspiciously as if he were holding the knife. “Where?”
“Somewhere we can clean you up.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
“And yet, here you are. In an alley. Stabbed and bloody and saved. By me, I might add.” The blood trailing down her golden skin and dirty shirt was concerning enough, but her face was also dangerously pale, and she reached out to stabilize herself against the wall.
Which made his decision for him. She had been manhandled enough, but she needed a doctor. He marched forward, did his best to avoid hurting her and carefully scooped her off her feet, despite her protests.
She fought initially, but the hiss of pain seemed to force her to realize her predicament. So she stilled here in his arms. Tiny thing that she was.
His thoughts were dark as he marched her to his car. That desperate men with knives and cruel men with power would try to harm someone in such a lower position than they.
“What happened to...him?” she asked, as they approached his waiting car. His driver stood expressionless, back door open and ready.
“My guard has taken care of it. Your attacker will be dispatched to the nearest police station.”
“Without a victim, nothing will happen to him,” she said, devoid of any emotion. “Even with a victim, really. It hardly matters anyway. He’s just paid muscle.”
He knew from experience living on the streets tended to beat the belief in justice out of a person. But he would ensure her attacker found justice—as well as the man who’d sent him.
He had built himself up out of the depths of poverty and abandonment to be the hand of justice himself.
“I’ll make sure he pays.”
