by Anna Zaires
As soon as she’s occupied, Julian turns me around to face him. “How are you feeling, baby?” he asks, his deep voice cutting through the blasting music. The colored lights flicker over his face, making him look surreally handsome. “Any tiredness? Nausea?”
“No.” Smiling, I vigorously shake my head. “I’m perfect. Better than perfect, in fact.”
“Yes, you are,” he murmurs, pulling me tighter against him, and I flush all over as I feel the hard bulge in his pants. He wants me, and my body responds immediately, the pulsing beat of the music echoing the sudden ache in my core. We’re surrounded by people, but all of them seem to fade away as we stare at one another, our bodies beginning to move together in a primal, sexual rhythm. My breasts swell, my nipples pebbling as I press my chest against his, and even through the layers of clothing we’re wearing, I can feel the heat coming off his large body . . . the same kind of heat that’s building within myself.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, staring down at me. His hips rock back and forth as we sway together, driven as much by our need for each other as the music’s beat. “You can’t wear this fucking dress ever again.”
“The dress?” I stare up at him, my body burning. “You think it’s the dress?”
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them to meet my gaze. “No,” he says hoarsely. “It’s not the dress, Nora. It’s you. It’s always fucking you.”
I half-expect him to drag me away then, but he doesn’t. Instead, he loosens his grip on me, putting a couple of inches of space between us. I can still feel his body against mine, but the raw sexuality of the moment is reduced, enabling me to breathe again. We dance like that for a few more songs, and then I begin to feel thirsty.
“Can I please get some water?” I ask, raising my voice to be heard above the music, and Julian nods, leading me toward the bar. As we pass by Rosa, I see that she’s still dancing with those two guys, seemingly content to be sandwiched between them. I give her a wink and a discreet thumbs-up, and then we’re out of the dancing, writhing crowd.
Julian gets me a glass filled with ice water, and I gratefully chug it down, feeling parched. He smiles as he watches me drink, and I know he’s remembering it too—our first meeting, right here by this bar.
As we turn to go back to the dance floor, I see Rosa walking toward the back, where the bathrooms are. She waves at me, grinning, and I wave back before turning to Julian.
“Let’s dance some more,” I say, grabbing his hand, and we dive back into the crowd just as a new song begins.
A few minutes later, I start to feel it—the familiar sensation of an overly full bladder.
“I have to pee,” I tell Julian, and he grins, leading me off the dance floor again. We walk together to the back of the club, and I get in line to the girls’ bathroom while Julian leans against the wall, watching as I wait my turn in the shadowed, circular hallway leading to the restrooms. I wonder if he’s guarding me even here and almost snicker at the idea of him being worried enough to accompany me to the ladies’ room.
Thankfully, he doesn’t. Instead, he stays by the entrance to the narrow hallway, his arms crossed over his chest.
The line is long, and it takes almost fifteen minutes to get to my destination. When my turn finally comes, I step into the small three-stall room and do my business. It’s only when I’m washing my hands that it occurs to me that Rosa disappeared in this direction, and I haven’t seen her come out since.
Pulling out my phone from my tiny purse, I text Julian: Did Rosa walk by you? Do you see her anywhere?
There’s no immediate answer, so I step out of the bathroom, about to head back, when a flash of something red a dozen feet away catches my attention. Frowning, I walk deeper into the circular hallway, past the restrooms, and then I see it.
A red, high-heeled shoe lying discarded on the floor.
My heart skips a beat.
Bending down, I pick it up, and a chill skitters down my spine.
There’s no doubt now. It’s Rosa’s shoe.
My pulse speeding up, I straighten, looking around, but I don’t see her anywhere. With the way the hallway curves, even the bathroom line is out of sight now.
Dropping the shoe, I pull out my phone again. There is a text from Julian in response to mine: No, I don’t see her.
I begin to type out a reply, but at that moment, a door I hadn’t noticed before swings open a few feet away.
A short, skinny guy steps out, closing the door behind him, and leans against the door frame.
A young guy, I realize, looking at him. More like a boy in his teens, his pale, freckled face unmarred by the slightest hint of stubble. His posture is casual, almost lazy, but something about the way he glances at me gives me pause.
“Excuse me.” I approach him carefully, wrinkling my nose at the strong smell of alcohol and cigarettes coming off him. “Have you seen my friend? She’s wearing a yellow dress—”
He spits on the floor in front of me. “Get the fuck outta here, bitch.”
I’m so startled I step back. Then anger blasts through me, mixing with adrenaline. “Excuse me?” My hands curl into fists. “What did you just call me?”
The teenager’s posture changes, becoming more combative. “I said—”
And at that moment, I hear it.
A woman’s scream behind the door, followed by the sound of something falling.
My adrenaline levels surge. Without thinking, I step forward and swing upward with my right fist, just as Julian taught me. The momentum of my move adds to the force of the blow, and the guy gasps as my fist slams into his solar plexus. He starts to double over, and at that moment, my knee comes up, crushing his balls.
He bends over with a high-pitched scream, clutching his crotch, and I grab the back of his neck, using the momentum to pull him forward as I stick my right foot out.
It works even better than in training.
He pitches forward, arms flailing, and his head hits the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. Then he slides to the floor, his body limp and unmoving in front of me.
Shaking, I gape at it. I can’t believe I just did that.
I can’t believe I took down a guy in a fight—even if that guy was a drunk teenage boy.
Another scream behind the door snaps me out of my daze.
I recognize that voice now, and a fresh burst of adrenaline sends my heartbeat soaring. Operating solely on instinct, I jump over the young guy’s fallen body and push open the door.
The room inside is long and narrow, with another door at the far end. A stained couch is by that door—and on that couch is my friend, struggling and sobbing under a man.
For a second, I’m too frozen to react, and then I notice streaks of red on the bright yellow of Rosa’s torn dress.
A hot, dark rage explodes in my chest, sweeping away all remnants of caution.
“Let her go!” I yell, rushing into the room. Startled, the guy jumps off Rosa, and then, as if recalling his vile agenda, grabs her by the hair and drags her off the couch.
“Nora!” Rosa screams hysterically, pointing at something behind me.
Horrified, I spin around, but it’s too late.
The other man is already on me, the back of his hand flying toward my face.
The blow knocks me into the wall, the impact of the hit jarring every bone in my back.
Dazed, I sink down to the floor, and through the ringing in my ears, I hear a man’s voice say, “You can fuck that one if you want. I’ll take my turn with this one in the car.”
And as rough hands start tearing at my clothes, I see Rosa’s attacker dragging her toward the door on the far side of the room.
Chapter 24
Julian
Bored, I step away from the wall and peer into the hallway. Nora is already at the front of the line, so I lean back against the wall and prepare to wait some more. I also make a mental note never to return to this club. These lines must be a regular occurrence her
e, and I find it ridiculous that they haven’t put in a bigger restroom for the women.
Taking out my phone, I check my email for the third time. As expected, nothing’s happened since three minutes ago, so I put the phone away again and consider walking over to the bar to get myself a drink. I’ve been abstaining all night to keep my reflexes sharp in case of danger, but one beer shouldn’t impact anything.
Still, I decide against it. Even though several of my guards are sprinkled throughout the club, I don’t feel comfortable having Nora out of sight for more than a couple of minutes. I would’ve even waited in that line with her, but the curving hallway is so narrow that there’s only room for the women and the occasional man pushing his way through.
So I wait, amusing myself by watching the dancers on the floor. With all the grinding bodies, the atmosphere is heavily sexual, but the flickering lights and pulsing beat do nothing for me. Without Nora in my arms to excite me, I might as well be standing on a street corner watching grass grow.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, distracting me from my thoughts. Pulling it out, I look at Nora’s message and frown.
Did Rosa walk by you? Do you see her anywhere?
Stepping away from the wall again, I glance into the hallway. I don’t see either Rosa or Nora there, but the girl who was behind Nora in line is still waiting her turn.
Satisfied that Nora must be inside the bathroom, I turn to survey the club, searching for a yellow dress in the crowd. It’s hard to see, with all the people and the dim lighting, but Rosa’s dress is bright enough that I should be able to spot her.
I don’t see anything, though. Not by the bar and not on the dance floor.
Starting to feel uneasy, I push through the crowd to get to the other side of the bar and look again.
Nothing. No yellow dress anywhere.
My unease morphs into full-blown alarm. Grabbing the phone again, I check the location of Nora’s trackers.
She’s still in the bathroom or right next to it.
Feeling marginally calmer, I message Lucas to put the men on alert and text Nora my response before pushing my way back toward the restrooms. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I need to have Nora with me. Right now. My instincts are screaming that something’s wrong, and I won’t relax until I have her securely by my side.
When I get to the hallway, I see that the line of women is even longer now, and there’s even a line to the men’s room. The narrow hallway is completely blocked, so I begin to shove people aside, ignoring their shouts of outrage.
Nora is not in this line, though the trackers indicate she’s nearby. She’s also not in the women’s bathroom, I realize as I pass by it. According to my tracking app, she’s about thirty feet ahead, a bit to the left of the curving hallway. The crowd clears out past this point, and I pick up the pace, my worry intensifying.
A second later, I see it.
A man’s body on the floor, next to a closed door.
My blood turns to ice, the fear sharp and acrid on my tongue. If somebody took Nora, if she’s been harmed in any way—
No. I can’t allow myself to go there, not when she needs me.
An icy calm engulfs me, blocking out the fear. Crouching down, I grab the knife from my ankle holster and slide it into my belt buckle for easy access. Then, rising to my feet, I take out my gun and step over the body, ignoring the blood trickling from the man’s forehead.
According to the app, Nora is only a few feet to the left of me—which means she’s behind that door.
Taking a deep breath, I push open the door and step into the room.
Immediately, a muffled cry to my right catches my attention. Spinning, I see two figures struggling by the wall . . . and all traces of calm flee.
Nora—my Nora—is fighting with a man twice her size. He’s on top of her, one of his hands muffling her screams and the other hand tearing at her clothes. Her eyes are wild and furious, her fingers curved into claws as she rakes at his face and neck, leaving bloody streaks across his skin.
A red fog descends on me, a rage more violent than anything I’ve known.
One leap, and I’m on top of them, dragging the man off Nora. I don’t shoot—too risky with her near—but the knife is in my hand as I pin him to the floor, my left forearm crushing his throat. He’s choking, his eyes bulging as I raise the knife and plunge it into his side, again and again. Hot blood spurts out, spraying all over me, and I smell his terror, his knowledge of impending death. His hands beat at me, but I don’t feel the blows. Instead, I watch his eyes as I stab him again and again, reveling in his dying struggles.
“Julian!” Nora’s cry snaps me out of my bloodlust, and I spring to my feet, leaving her attacker’s twitching body on the floor.
She’s shaking, mascara and tears streaming down her face as she tries to stand up, holding the wall for support.
Fuck. Sickening fear fills my chest. I rush to her and gather her against me, frantically patting her down in search of injuries. Nothing feels broken, but her lower lip is split and puffy, and her dress has a small rip at the top. And the child— No, I can’t think about that now.
“Baby, are you hurt?” My voice is barely recognizable as my own. “Did he hurt you?”
She shakes her head, her eyes still wild. “No!” She twists in my arms, pushing at me with surprising strength. “Let me go! We have to go after her!”
“What? Who?” Startled, I move back, holding her by one arm so she wouldn’t fall.
“Rosa! He’s got her, Julian! He grabbed her and dragged her out that way.” Nora jabs her free hand in the direction of the door in the back. “We must go after her!” She sounds hysterical.
“Another man took her?”
“Yes! He said—” Nora’s voice catches on a sob. “He said he was going to take his turn in the car. There were two of them here, and one took Rosa!”
I stare at her, a new fury building inside me. I may not be close to Rosa, but I like the girl and she’s under my protection. The idea that someone dared to do this, to assault her and Nora this way—
“Hurry!” Nora implores, frantically tugging on the arm I’m holding to pull me toward the door. “Come on, Julian, we have to hurry! He just dragged her out that way, so we can still catch up!”
Fuck. I grit my teeth, every muscle in my body vibrating with tension. I’ve never been so torn in my life. Nora is hurt, and everything inside me screams that she’s my first priority, that I should grab her and rush her to safety as quickly as possible. But if what she says is true, then the only way to save Rosa is to act immediately—and it’ll take my men at least a few minutes to get to where we are.
“Please, Julian!” Nora begs, sobbing, and the panic in her eyes decides it for me.
“Stay here.” My voice is cold and sharp as I release her arm and step back. “Do not move.”
“I’m coming with you—”
“Like hell you are.” Pulling out my gun, I thrust it into her hands. “Wait for me here, and shoot anyone you don’t recognize.”
And before she can argue with me, I stride swiftly toward the back door, messaging Lucas about the situation on the way.
Chapter 25
Nora
As soon as Julian disappears through the door, I sink to the floor, clutching the gun he gave me. My legs are trembling and my head is spinning, waves of nausea rolling through me. I feel like I’m hanging on to my sanity by a thread. Only the knowledge that Julian is on his way to rescue Rosa keeps me from slipping into complete hysteria. Drawing in a shuddering breath, I wipe at the moisture on my face with the back of my hand, and as I lower my arm, a streak of red catches my attention.
Blood.
There’s blood on me.
I stare at it, repulsed yet fascinated. It has to be from the man Julian killed. Julian was covered in blood when he touched me, and it’s all over me now, the streaks of red on my arms and chest reminiscent of one of my paintings. Strangely, the analogy calms me a bit. Drawing in another
breath, I look up, turning my attention to the dead man lying a few feet away.
Now that he’s not attacking me, I realize with shock that I recognize him. He’s one of the two young men Rosa was dancing with. Does that mean that the second attacker is the other man? I frown, trying to remember the second man’s features, but he’s just a blur in my mind. I also don’t recall ever seeing the teenage guy who was guarding the entrance to this room. Was he with Rosa’s dancing companions? If so, why? None of this makes any sense. Even if the three of them are serial rapists, how could they have thought they’d get away with such a brutal assault in a club?
Of course, the motivations of the dead man don’t matter anymore. I know he’s dead because his body is no longer twitching. His eyes are open and his mouth is slack, a trickle of blood running down his cheek. He stinks of death too, I realize—of blood, feces, and fear. As the sickening smell registers, I scoot away, crawling a few feet to huddle closer to the couch.
Another man was killed in front of me. I wait for horror and disgust, but they don’t come. Instead, all I feel is a kind of vicious joy. As if on a movie screen, I see Julian’s knife rising and falling, sinking into the man’s side again and again, and all I can think is that I’m glad the man is dead.
I’m glad Julian gutted him.
It’s odd, but my lack of empathy doesn’t bother me this time. I can still feel the man’s hands on my body, his nails scraping my skin as he ripped at my clothes. He’d managed to pin me down while I was dazed from his blow, and even though I struggled as hard as I could, I knew I was losing. If Julian hadn’t come when he did—
No. I shut that down mid-thought. Julian did come, so there’s no need to dwell on the worst. All things considered, I’ve gotten off with minimal damage. My split lip throbs and my back feels like one giant bruise, but it’s nothing irreparable. My body will heal. I’ve been hit before and survived.