Page 6 of Claimed Through Deception

But when the giant in the dark suit presses the tip of a switchblade into the back of his hand, drawing a bright bead of blood, the man begs.

"Please."

His voice cracks. It is wet and thick with terror.

The bass from the jukebox is still vibrating through the floorboards. The red neon sign in the window is still buzzing. But my brain abruptly cuts the feed. The audio warps. The red light shifts, bleeding into the harsh, yellow glare of a cheap kitchen bulb. The smell of spilled beer morphs into the sickening stench of stale whiskey and unwashed clothes.

It isn't a nameless man in a suit pinning someone to the sticky floor.

It is my father. And the person crying, the person bleeding on the linoleum, is my mother.

"Please."

My chest violently seizes.

A cold, blinding rush of adrenaline hits my bloodstream. It’s a physical shockwave. Twenty-two years of survival, twenty-two years of keeping my head down and my mouth shut, evaporates in a single millisecond. The trauma doesn't ask for permission. It doesn't calculate the odds or look at the bespoke suits and the guns holstered at their waists. It only knows one pattern.

Stop the monster. Protect the victim.

The damp rag slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a soft slap.

I don't realize I am moving until my feet are carrying me forward. I step out from the safety of the wooden tables and walk directly into the center of the aisle. Right into the center of the kill zone.

The younger man, the one with the cruel smile pinning the victim down, snaps his head toward me. His hand instantly drops to the bulge at his waist.

"Don't touch her," the man with the knife says.

His voice is low and dark. The younger man freezes, his hand hovering over his weapon.

I don't look at him. My eyes are locked entirely on the giant holding the switchblade.

I stop two feet away from him. My chest is heaving, pulling in jagged, desperate breaths of the stale bar air. Up close, his size is overwhelming. Even crouched over his victim, he is a mountain of dark wool and lethal intent.

He slowly turns his head and looks up at me.

His eyes are black. Completely soulless. They are the eyes of a man who has never been told no in his entire life.

My hands act before my brain can catch up to the sheer, suicidal insanity of what I am doing. I step forward, reaching out, and shove my hands flat against his chest.

It is like shoving a brick wall.

He doesn't budge. He doesn't even sway. The fabric of his suit jacket is soft, but the muscle beneath it is rigid and unyielding. The heat radiating off his body burns right through the palms of my hands.

"Stop," I hiss.

My voice isn't a roar. It isn't a threat. It is a harsh, trembling demand ripped from the bottom of my lungs. Nobody breathes. The man on the floor even stops whimpering, his terrified eyes darting up to my face as if I were a ghost.

I brace myself.

My stomach clenches, my shoulders instinctively pulling in. I know how this goes. I know the physics of male violence. You interrupt them, you challenge their authority, and the backhand comes. I squeeze my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, waiting for the crack of his knuckles against my cheekbone. I prepare my body for the impact, calculating how to fall so I don't hit the edge of the wooden booth.

One second. Two seconds.

The hit never comes.

I open my eyes.

The man hasn't raised a hand to me. He is completely still. The switchblade in his right hand is pointed at the floor. He is staring at me, his dark eyes searching my face with a terrifying, heavy intensity.