Page 48 of Malice

I twist out of his hold, Carter’s voice in my head barking orders before I even think. Pivot, rotate, break the line. So, I fucking do it, wrenching my arm down and free, a sharp, radiating pain shooting from my shoulder to my wrist. He lunges for me again, but I drop low, the way Carter drilled it into me. His fist grabs only empty air.

I bolt sideways, slamming the dumpster between us. He rounds the corner, but I’m already backpedaling, sneakers skidding on the concrete. And then the emergency door slams open, and there’s my mother.

She doesn’t bark a warning. She doesn’t waste a goddamn breath.

She seizes his hooded head and yanks him back, two-handed, like she’s uprooting a weed. He falters, mask tilting skyward, and she doesn’t let go. Not for a second. She pulls him sideways, using his own momentum to slam his ass into the alley wall. For a woman in her fifties, she moves with a shocking, explosive force. He grunts against the brick, and she hits him, open palm, closed fist, raining blows with that pure, unfiltered rage.

“Get your fucking hands off my daughter!”

Each word is punctuated by another sickening crack.

He shoves her away, and she catches herself on the dumpster, leather scraping concrete. But before I can even process it, she’s back on her feet and charging him again.

And I’m moving now too. Feet remembered. That bullshit paralysis is gone, torched by something that’s not courage. It’s a raw, savage fury I didn’t know I had. I’m not going to be dragged from a goddamn bookstore. Not taken from my mother. Not from Carter, who’s probably crashing through shelves inside right now, the alarm blaring, something heavy crashing down.

The guy turns to size me up again, and I see the switch flip in his eyes. He’s recalculating. He thought I was easy prey. Quick grab, clean getaway, compliant little girl.

He fucked up.

I scan the alley, eyes darting over busted dumpsters, split trash bags, and scattered cardboard. My gaze lands on something under a crumpled box. A wooden handle.

A damn toilet plunger.

Old, cracked rubber, but the handle is solid oak. Feels right in my grip. I snatch it up.

“Trixie!” My mom’s calling, sharp and crystal fucking clear. She’s flanking him on the left, body low, hands up, ready to brawl. She doesn’t need a weapon. The look on her face could gut a man in seconds. And the guy sees it. His eyes flick between us, and I see the first fracture in that cold, predator calm.

He lunges at her.

I swing.

The plunger slams into the back of his skull with a wet thwack, sending vibrations shooting up my wrists. He staggers, his hood slipping. My mom is on him instantly, her knee driving into his side, fists pounding his kidney. He doubles over, making a strangled noise behind the mask, and I’m ready to finish what we started.

I swing again. This time the wooden handle finds his ribs, and I hear something give. Not a full break, but a crack. The sound of something giving way under pressure. He whirls toward me, eyes wide and bright with something that might be panic. His gloved hand reaches for the plunger.

I don’t let him.

I yank it back and swing once more. He ducks, and the plunger slices past his head. I’m off balance for half a second. Carter would have my head for that, the obvious telegraphing, the overreach, but my mom’s already there. Her boot, clearly picked for more than just looks, slams into the back of his knee. He drops to one knee, and I swing the plunger in a tight arc.

The rubber cup hits him square in the face.

Not the handle. The cup.

It smothers his nose and mouth, cutting off his air with a wet, obscene sound. For a surreal second, he’s gagging against it, his hands clawing desperately at the handle I’m still holding. He can’t breathe, can’t see. His panic fills the space between us.

My mother doesn’t hesitate. She plants a foot on his chest and shoves. He stumbles backward, arms flailing, and crashes against the alley wall. I rip the plunger away as he falls, and he’s left gasping, his mask crooked, his nose red and flattened, eyes streaming with tears.

I snatch up the plunger from the ground. This isn’t over. Not even close. The emergency door slams open behind us, and Carter strides in, all six-foot-something of him, face pale with a terror I’ve never seen from him. His eyes lock onto mine, then dart to the man on the ground, and back again. Before I can say anything, he’s already crossed the alley in two giant steps, his fist smashing into the man’s jaw before the guy even manages a breath.

The sound of bones cracking is unmistakable. The man collapses, but Carter grabs him by the collar, slamming him into the brick wall one last time, methodical and ruthless, until the guy goes limp. Carter holds him there for another second, his knuckles going white around the fabric. He lets go, and the man slides down the wall, motionless.

Carter turns to me. His hands are on my face before I realize it, tilting my chin left, then right, his thumbs grazing my cheeks. His gaze is intense, blurring my vision.

“You’re hurt,” he says, voice raw like he’s been shouting forever.

“I’m not.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I’m fine, Carter. Really.”

His hand moves to my arm, where the man’s fingers had dug in, leaving a bruise blooming like five dark petals. A muscle jumps in Carter’s jaw, a hard, rhythmic pulse under his skin.