Page 123 of Twisted Devotion

I take a step back.

He takes two forward.

The sour stench of sweat and beer makes my stomach churn. Then I catch the glint of something metallic in his hand. A knife? A bottle? I can’t tell, but I don’t need to.

I lift my hands, forcing my voice to stay calm. “I don’t want any trouble.”

He snorts. “Too late.”

His hand shoots out, clamping around my wrist. My heart slams against my ribs as a grin spreads across his face.

He shoves me hard, my shoulder scraping against the rough concrete wall. The sting jolts me into action. I thrash, pushing at his chest with both hands. My knee jerks up, striking his thigh—just shy of where I aimed. He grunts, his face twisting with fury.

“Little bitch,” he spits, his breath hot and sour. He presses in closer, his weight crushing against me and I can feel his growing erection.

Panic surges through me, white-hot and blinding. My mind flashes with terror—then instinct. Survival. I snap my head back before slamming it forward, colliding with his skull.

Pain explodes behind my eyes, but he stumbles, cursing. His grip slackens for half a second.

I bolt.

My feet pound against the pavement as I tear down the alley, his shouts chasing me into the night. I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can hear him, his breath ragged, his footsteps closing in.

I just run.

My lungs burn. My arms tremble. I risk a glance over my shoulder—he’s still there, his face twisted with rage, closing the distance. Panic surges through me, pushing me forward.

I burst onto a busier street, shoving past startled bystanders. A few mutter in confusion, stepping aside, but I don’t stop. My heart pounds like it might explode.

Then—silence.

I turn sharply, breath ragged, searching. He was right behind me. I swear he was. But now… nothing. No footsteps. No curses. No shadows lurking in the dim glow of streetlights. Just emptiness.

Sweat drips from my temple, stinging my eyes. My pulse still races, but a new thought slithers into my mind, coiling tight around my gut.

Nicolas.

Or maybe his men.

The idea seems absurd. But I know how he operates. I know how he protects what’s his.

A chill runs through me, but it isn’t fear. It’s something else—something harder to name. Relief, maybe. Or something even more dangerous.

I stumble to a concrete step near the sidewalk and collapse onto it, my body trembling. My hands throb from where they slammed against the wall, my shoulder aches, and my throat is raw from gasping for air.

A passerby slows, concern flickering across their face. I shake my head, waving them off. I can’t explain this—not to them. Maybe not even to myself.

I sit there for a long moment, forcing my breath to steady, until finally, I push myself upright. My legs feel weak, but I make them move, one step at a time.

Eventually, I reach a main road, flag down a cab, and sink into the back seat. The driver asks where to, and I barely mumble my address.

My pulse hasn’t settled. My thoughts are still tangled in the alley—the rough hands, the crushing fear… and the way he vanished.

Nicolas.

It has to be him. Or his men. Someone watching. Someone stepping in before it was too late.

Or maybe it was just luck. Perhaps the man ran on his own.

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