Page 52 of Welded Defender
“Stop,” I say, my voice strangled. The fear ripping through me isn’t for me anymore—it’s all for him. Brett’s threats are never empty. He makes good on the ones that matter. “Landon.”
Landon’s shoulders drop a fraction at my voice. His jaw unclenches, then locks tight again as he shifts his weight back, planting himself like a wall between us without taking another step forward.
Brett touches his cheek where the skin has gone scarlet, a purple shadow already blooming beneath the surface. His eyes dart to the ceiling corner, narrowing at the camera’s blinking red light. He glances through the glass door to the street where his car sits alone in the snow, exhaust still curling from the tailpipe.
“I’ll see you soon, Marcy.” Brett’s voice drops to a whisper that slides between my ribs like a blade. His gaze shifts to Landon, lips curling upward while his eyes remain dead and flat. “And you? Remember this face.” His finger taps his own bruised cheek. “It’ll be the last one you ever see.”
“Go,” Landon says.
Brett yanks the door open, cold air rushing in. He takes one last look at me—sharp, calculating—and then he’s gone.
CHAPTER 27
Landon
My knuckles throb red and swollen where they split against Brett’s jaw, his blood still spattered across my skin. I flex my hand, welcoming the sting. I don’t regret punching him—not when he was seconds away from dragging Marcy out of here.
Through the shop window, his taillights vanish down Main Street, but his words linger in the air between us: “Remember this face, it’ll be the last thing you see.” Not shouted. Whispered. Like a promise carved in stone.
Marcy stands frozen beside me, her breath coming in shallow gasps, pupils blown wide as she stares at nothing. Her fingers grip the counter edge like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat pulsing through my jaw, my temples, my teeth. I taste copper.
“He’s gone,” I say, my voice scraping like gravel.
Marcy trembles—her fingers shake against the counter. Her knees buckle, and the milk carton slips from her grasp, landing with a hollow thud that echoes through the empty shop. I lunge forward, catching her elbow before she crumples. Her weight falls against my chest, her body vibrating like a plucked string.I press my lips to her hair as tremors ripple through her shoulders, down her spine.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur. “You’re okay. He can’t hurt you.”
“I hate this.” Her voice breaks like glass.
“I know.” I tighten my hold, letting the night settle around us. “But you’re not alone anymore.”
Her shoulders drop an inch, then another, her weight settling more fully against me. The frantic pulse at her throat slows under my fingertips. She exhales—a long, shuddering breath that seems to empty weeks of tension from her lungs. Brett came, Brett threatened, Brett left—and here she stands, unbroken.
I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of lavender that clings to her hair. My fists unclench. The rage that burned white-hot minutes ago settles into my bones, heavier now, like cooling metal.
I brush my thumb across the damp curve of her cheek and tilt her face toward mine. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”
She nods, and I keep my arm around her as we climb to her apartment. By the time we reach the landing, the night has gone almost eerily still, like the world is holding its breath.
At the top, she fumbles with the doorknob, hands trembling so badly she can’t get it open. I cover her fingers gently, twist it for her, and ease her inside. Smoke hangs thick in the air—gravy scorched black in a pot, potatoes boiling over. I lunge for the burner knobs, twisting them off with a series of hollow clicks. When I turn back, Marcy’s already halfway across the room, coat still on, sinking deep into the couch cushions. Her eyes fix on some middle distance as she pulls her knees to her chest.
“He means it,” she whispers. “If he can’t get to me, he’ll go through you.”
“I’m already in the way.” I step closer, slow and careful. “That’s the point. And I’m not moving.”
Her chin trembles. She tries to stay stubborn through the fear. “I don’t want you hurt because of me.” I know she’s scared, and it gnaws at my insides like a parasite. I want to tell her that nothing will happen to me, that I can protect us both, but my words feel thin against the weight of what Brett left hanging in the air.
“Listen,” I say, kneeling in front of her, trying to catch her gaze. Her eyes drift to the window, lost in shadows. “I’m not afraid of him. And I’m sure as hell not going anywhere.” I cup her cheek, my thumb brushing away a tear before she can swipe it herself.
Her forehead tips against my chest. She holds on tight. I wrap both arms around her, grounding myself in her weight, her warmth. The night air still clings to her coat, but beneath it she’s soft, alive—breakable in a way that makes me furious at the man who put that look in her eyes.
We sit there until her breathing evens out against me, until the pounding in my knuckles finally sinks back into my ribs where it belongs. I let the silence stretch, let it do the work words can’t manage. The old clock on the wall ticks steady, a heartbeat I match without meaning to.
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are wet, her mouth trembling, but her voice comes out steady. “I want to feel like he can’t touch this. Can’t take this away from us.”
"This?" The word catches in my throat, comes out rough and raw.
"You. Us."
