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The feeling was mutual.
He devoured her lips, unable to gather enough of her as he pushed for more, entirely captivated by the small sounds she oozed and the way she melded into his body with each passing second.
He didn’t notice the other presence in the alleyway, slowly working to corner him until the person stood directly behind him, nearly breathing down his neck.
Vincent felt the blow to the back of his head before he could move. He collapsed to the side. Despite the dizziness that the impact had brought upon him, he managed to twist midair and cradle Kiera to him before they crashed to the ground, diminishing her fall with his body. He twisted and covered her as the bat swung down again.
She screamed as it connected with his side, and the absolute terror on her face as she rested on the ground beneath him spurred his instincts to fight.
For her.
He sprung to his feet and barely dodged the next attempted strike. All three of the men looked unfamiliar, but he knew who had sent them. “You’re all dead,” he said evenly.
Only one of them had the common sense to appear afraid. The other two only smirked. One held a knife, and the other—the closest—yielded a bat. While he had a gun, the shots would draw too much attention. He needed to finish the fight quietly and quickly.
He only glanced at Kiera, who scooted against the wall in shock and fear.
He attacked.
It took a matter of seconds for him to grab the bat and disarm the first man. He seemed unprepared for Vincent to fight back. He nearly dropped the wooden bat in shock, and Vincent putall his weight behind slamming it into the man’s head. He went down hard.
Vincent didn’t bother checking if the man was alive or if he was unconscious. He instead faced the other two men and struck. The one with the knife was both prepared and trained as he swiped his blade at Vincent’s throat. In an attempt to avoid the blow, he raised the bat to block, but it still caught his arm.
The second man took a step back, then back toward the fight, before making a decision that he’d regret. He stepped into the melee.
Vincent threw the bat at the man newest to the fight and dove at the other, grabbing the wrist that clutched the knife and slamming it into the alleyway wall. The man roared in frustration as he raised a fist and slammed it into Vincent’s mouth. He used his fist to do the same, breaking the man’s nose in one blow and knocking him unconscious in two more.
Vincent, disarmed and already breathless from the fight, hadn’t expected the third man’s arm to wrap around his throat. Vincent knew the hold, and he’d used it a dozen times. It would send him into unconsciousness in seconds if he didn’t escape the grip.
He squeezed at the man’s arm, reaching another hand toward his face, but his captor had been well-trained. Vincent’s vision filled with darkness. He tried to slam his elbow back, but his opponent had blocked against all attacks.Hold on, he chanted to himself, slamming his fists into the man’s exposed skin.For Kiera, you need to fight.
A thud reached his dulling senses, and he collapsed atop the man, gasping and twisting. As he regained focus, he saw Kiera standing over him, the bat in her hand and a brutal stillness in her eyes.
She looked like a warrior goddess, and if he hadn’t already been prone, he would have fallen to his knees.
13
She followed Vincent toward his house, her hands still trembling and sweating from what had happened. His home, a modern-styled house in the suburban part of Philadelphia, surprised her with its well-groomed lawn and homey feel. She’d have imagined that he lived in a cramped apartment on the west side of Philly, not a craftsman-styled home.
She examined the exterior with mild interest. It was a side of Vincent she’d never imagined—his domestic side. She followed him inside.
Vincent kicked off his shoes at the door, leading her through the open living room and kitchen and into a back bathroom. How was he walking with such cool confidence after what had happened?
“Are we going to talk about it?” Kiera finally asked, standing outside the bathroom door as he rifled through a small cupboard, pulling out a caddy with disinfectant, bandages, and other first aid items.
Nausea rose as she spotted a needle and thread and looked away, refusing to consider how many of his injuries he’d stitched in this very bathroom.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asked as leisurely as he would have asked about the weather.
“What do I want to talk about?” she repeated. “I don’t know, maybe the men who came to kill you. Oh, and let’s not forget the man who seems to want me dead now, too.”
The snark in her voice was palpable, but Vincent didn’t so much as flinch as he withdrew two bottles of liquid and sat them atop the modern sink.
“What do you want to know?”
She paused. She hadn’t expected him to be so willing to divulge the information. She softened in the doorway, not daring to break his gaze. “I want to know why I’m being we’re being targeted.”
His eyes narrowed, but he gave a distinct nod. “Come bandage me, and I’ll tell you.”
