Page 2 of Keller

In a split second, my foot catches the edge of the curb at the wrong angle, and gravity wins. I pitch forward into the street. My hands come up instinctively, but they're not fast enough, and the cobblestones rush toward my knees.

The carriage is right there.

Hooves pound closer as the metal wheels screech. Tourists shriek and laugh because they don't know yet, or they can't see.

My body locks. Every muscle freezes as if someone cut the power, and all I can do is watch the massive horse barrel toward me with its head tossing and foam flecking its bit. The driverjerks the reins, shouting something I can't hear over the roar in my ears.

Move, move, fucking move?—

Nothing.

My lungs seize. My throat closes. The street tilts under my palms, and I'm stuck. Panic floods through my chest.

A hand clamps around my arm. The grip is iron with hesitation.

I'm yanked backward so hard my shoulder screams, and suddenly there's a body between me and the street. It’s solid, immovable, blocking out the noise and the light and the wheels that scrape past close enough to kick dust onto my shoes.

I gasp. Air rushes back into my lungs.

The man doesn't let go. His other hand steadies my elbow, and his body stays planted in front of me, a wall of contained force that doesn't flinch when the carriage thunders past. His breathing is steady and controlled, like he's not even winded.

I smell something clean. It’s his soap, or maybe cologne, something sharp and expensive that cuts through the Quarter's humidity. Heat radiates from where his hand grips my arm, fingers pressing hard enough that I'll feel the shape of them tomorrow.

"Breathe." His voice is low, calm, and cuts through the spiral in my head like a blade. "That was a close call."

I blink. My vision clears, and I see him for the first time.

Thick black glasses frame his engaging brown eyes. His sharp jaw and dirty-blond hair, pushed back from his face, is messy but intentional. His eyes sweep over me once, assessing, before locking onto something behind my shoulder.

He releases my elbow but keeps his hand on my arm. His gaze shifts to the drunk guys now frozen on the curb, eyes wide, one of them still clutching his stupid plastic cup.

"Walk away."

It's not loud or a threat, but the way he says it makes both of them shrink.

They stumble backward. One mutters something that might be an apology. The other trips over his own feet. They're gone in seconds.

The man's hand drops from my arm.

The absence is immediate and disorienting. My skin still burns where he touched me, and my pulse hammers so loud in my ears I can barely hear the street noise rushing back in.

"Quinn!"

Leah crashes into me, hands grabbing my shoulders, her face pale and frantic.

"Oh my God, are you okay? I was across the street when I realized you'd fallen, and I had to wait for the carriage to pass. Are you okay?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat is tight and my tongue thick and useless.

"Quinn, talk to me."

I nod. Force air through my teeth. "I'm—yeah. I'm fine."

I'm not fine. My knees shake, my hands are trembling, and adrenaline burns under my skin like live current. All I can feel is the phantom weight of this stranger's grip, the heat of his body, the steadiness that saved me. Literally.

Leah's still talking, something about the carriage, the driver, those assholes who nudged into me, but I'm not listening.

My eyes search the crowd once I realize he's gone. It's like he was never there. There's no trace except the bruise already forming under my sleeve and the rush in my bloodstream that won't settle.