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Angel ignored my plea and knelt in the sand. Brown eyes softening, she lifted her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry about your bike.”
The lunatic scrambled to his knees, planting his palms on the ground to push himself up.
“Angel…” I hissed. Worried eyes flitted to Reid. I could defend us, but not with my son in my arms. “Stay back. He’s dangerous.”
She swayed forward.
“Angel!” I roared.
To my horror, she snaked her hands around the crazy man’s neck and hugged him.
7
Angel
I’d heard when the cyclist screamed about killing me. Fear had slithered up my veins and tightened my chest. In that moment, I’d wanted nothing more than to tuck Reid close and run. Let Deacon handle it. Stay safe.
But something deep in my spirit refused to let me leave. I stood, a safe, healthy distance away, enraptured by the scrawny man who seemed to be at the end of his rope.
I’d never met him before.
He had no reason to hold such animosity toward me.
So why…?
It was then I’d heard my dad’s voice in my head, “Angel, sometimes, the loudest, angriest people are the ones with the deepest wounds.”
Inside, I’d debated whether I should step in. So, when I saw Deacon clobber the man with a practiced, breezy stab of his elbow, I couldn’t hold back.
Ignoring all else—Deacon, Reid, the passersby who, for the second time today, were staring my way—I focused on the cyclist bowed low in the sand.
He was hurting.
It was written all over his face, tattooed in those tear-filled blue eyes. He wasn’t a killer. Not that we weren’t all capable of murder. But this… it was different.
I saw the brokenness in his eyes. It reminded me of the day I found out that my father, my best friend in the whole world, was sick. That helplessness, that rage, it had begged to be unleashed.
This guy had chosen me as his target, but I wasn’t the one he truly hated.
“She’ll die,” he whispered, spitting into the sand.
And I knew what I had to do.
Deacon’s shocked breath rattled the air as I swooped forward and threw my body against the cyclist’s. He trembled, burying his face in my shoulder.
Something wet dripped against my skin.
Tears.
He bawled, softly at first and then loudly. The sound triggered Reid who started crying in solidarity. Their wails lifted to the blood-red sky and flew on the currents of the soft, tropical breeze.
“Reid, stop crying,” Deacon snapped.
I threw a hand back, warning the father to remain quiet. In that moment, I didn’t care how powerful Deacon was or how much he affected me. A man was falling apart in front of my eyes and Deacon’s throw-punches-first-ask-questions-later gig was the wrong approach.
“What happened?” I whispered.
The stranger lifted his head slowly, torturously, as if his neck could no longer hold the weight of it. With chapped lips, he replied, “I was too late. She was gone.”
