Page 10 of The Devil's Wrath

The door was solid oak, but the lock was old and flimsy. I burst into a dimly lit kitchen, my eyes darting around for any sign of her or her assailant. A pot still steamed on the stove, and a half-chopped onion lay on a cutting board, as if her late-night meal prep had been abruptly abandoned. I quickly twisted the knob to theoffposition, and from upstairs, I heard a thump and a muffled cry. I charged through the kitchen and into a lavishly furnished living room, following the sounds to a grand staircase. Taking the steps two at a time, I raced upward, my heart pounding in my chest.

As I reached the second-floor landing, I heard her voice, pleading and desperate. “Stop! Please. You’re hurting me!”

I didn’t hesitate. I lunged for the door the voice had come from and shouldered it open, nearly stumbling as I burst into the room.

The scene before me made my blood run cold. She was cowering in the corner, her white T-shirt torn, a livid red mark blossoming on her cheek. Looming over her was Connor McKinley, the boyfriend she had just caught cheating on her.

Connor McKinley, the golden boy of collegiate boxing, the man who had it all—looks, charm, and a promising political career. But here he was, his carefully crafted facade shattered, revealing the ugly truth beneath.

He whirled around at my intrusion, his eyes wild and filled with a disturbing mix of rage and something darker, more primal. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he snarled, his fists clenched at his sides.

I ignored him, my gaze fixed on her. “Are you alright?” I asked, taking a step toward her.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. “I . . . I don’t . . .” she stammered, her voice trembling.

Connor moved to block my path, his tall frame imposing and menacing. “She’s fine,” he snapped. “Now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops.”

I laughed humorlessly. “Go ahead. I’m sure they’d be very interested to hear about daddy’s little golden boy assaulting a woman.”

His face paled, and for a moment, I thought he might back down. But then, with a roar of fury, he lunged at me, his fists flying.

I had expected this, and I was ready. I sidestepped his wild swing and delivered a swift jab to his solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping for air, but recovered quickly, his rage fueling his determination.

We traded blows, crashing into furniture and sending lamps and knickknacks flying. Connor was a skilled boxer, but his technique was sloppy, and his anger mixed with the alcohol seeping out of his pores made him reckless. I managed to land a solid right hook to his jaw, sending him staggering sideways.

He wiped the blood from his split lip, his eyes blazing with fury. “You’re going to regret this, you little bitch,” he growled, circling me like a predator stalking its prey.

I kept my guard up, my gaze flicking between him and her. She had pulled herself to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall, her eyes wide and frightened.

Connor lunged again, feinting left before delivering a powerful uppercut. I managed to dodge the worst of it, but the blow still grazed my chin, sending stars exploding across my vision. I shook my head to clear it just in time to see him coming at me again.

This time, I was ready. As he swung, I ducked under his arm and drove my fist into his ribs, feeling the satisfying crack of bone. He howled in pain, his arm dropping to protect his side.

Sensing an opening, I pressed my advantage. I swept his leg, sending him crashing to the floor. Before he could recover, I pounced, pinning him with my knee to his chest and my forearm pressed against his throat.

“It’s over, Connor,” I growled, my face inches from his. “If I ever catch wind of you laying a hand on her or any other woman again, I swear to god, I’ll make you wish I had killed you tonight.”

He glared at me, his eyes burning with impotent rage, but said nothing.

I leaned in closer, applying just enough pressure to his windpipe to make my point. “Do we understand each other?”

He managed a small, tight nod, and I released him. I stepped back and allowed him to pull himself to his feet. He swayed unsteadily, one arm wrapped around his injured ribs, his breath coming in short, pained gasps.

“This isn’t over, Devil.” Connor glared at me with pure hatred, but he knew he was beaten. Without another word, he limped out of the room, each step a testament to the damage I had inflicted.

I watched him go, ensuring he actually left. Only when I heard the front door slam did I allow myself to relax slightly. I turned to her, my bravado fading as I took in her disheveled appearance and the fear that lingered in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly, taking a tentative step toward her.

She nodded, her lip trembling. “I think so.”

“Hey,” I said, approaching her slowly, as one might a wounded animal. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

She looked up at me, her gray eyes filled with a tumultuous mix of emotions—fear, confusion, and something akin to gratitude. “Who . . . who are you, really?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I hesitated, suddenly realizing the absurdity of the situation. I had no right to be here, no claim to the role of her savior. I was just a stranger, a shadow following her for reasons I couldn’t even fully articulate to myself.

“I’m . . . afriend,” I said lamely, the words feeling inadequate even as they left my mouth. “I was worried about you, and I . . . I couldn’t just stand by and let him hurt you.”

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