Page 8 of Shadows of Steel
Fear doesn’t take hold, though. It isn’t something I allow myself to feel anymore. If it’s him, if it’s anyone, they’ll soon realize I’m not an easy target.
I slow my pace as I turn down a quieter path. The light from the streetlamps is dim here, casting long shadows that stretchacross the pavement. I see a figure stepping out in front of me, blocking my path.
He’s tall and young, maybe mid-twenties, his face frustratingly nondescript. But there’s a sinister quality to his presence, a discomfort in the way he stands. He’s wearing a suit, but it doesn’t soften him. If anything, the formality feels like a mask meant to obscure something darker.
My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for the gun beneath my blouse, the familiar weight of it resting against my ribs. Adrenaline hums through me, whispering promises of violence, urging me to let it loose if this stranger gives me so much as a reason.
He doesn’t speak immediately, doesn’t offer the usual, predictable pleasantries of a chance encounter. No, he stands there in the narrow alley, his posture radiating a predatory calm. His eyes meet mine, and the way he looks at me is enough to curdle my blood, with disgust. I know that look. I’ve seen it before. It’s the look of a man who thinks he’s already won.
“Move,” I say, my voice cold, almost lazy.
He doesn’t. Instead, his gaze sharpens, a glint of amusement twisting his lips into something akin to a smile. It’s the kind of expression that tells me he’s already decided I’m his next game. The disgust churns in my stomach, but not at him, at the familiarity of this scene, at the sheer banality of his arrogance.
“What’s a beauty like you doing wandering these streets alone at night?” His voice is low, almost a purr, but it’s laced with darkness. He takes a step forward, and instinctively, I step back. “There are wolves in the shadows,” he continues, his smile stretching too wide, baring too much teeth. “Hunters, waiting for the perfect moment to claim what they desire.” He pauses, his gaze dragging over me.
“And tonight, bella, I’ve decided, you’re the prize.”
My grip tightens on my bags, and I force myself to stay calm, my voice cutting through the tension. “Better step back now,” I warn, “if you don’t want your brains scattered all over these walls.”
His hollow laugh echoes through the empty street. “I love when they talk dirty to me.” He says, taking another step closer. “Makes it all the more satisfying to take what they don’t want to give.”
When he lunges, I drop my bags, my body moving faster than my thoughts. He reaches for me, but I pivot sharply, driving the pointed heel of my boots into his groin with as much force as I can muster. His grunt of pain is a brief, savage satisfaction, but it doesn’t last. He recovers faster than I expect, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me backward. The sudden, searing pain shoots through my scalp as he slams me against the rough brick wall. My head cracks against the surface, and my vision blurs with a burst of white. The impact forces the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping as the world tilts.
“That’s it, bitch.” He snarls, his voice a feral growl as he pins me harder against the wall. “Now you’ve really pissed me off. So be a good girl and take it all, without making a sound.”
His hand skims the curve of my body, and for a split second, I freeze. Déjà vu hits like a freight train, the memory of Troy’s leering face and greedy hands flashing in vivid, nauseating detail.
What is it with men like this?
The rage rises like wildfire, burning hotter with each breath.
Why do they always think they have a right to women’s body? Why do they think they can take what doesn’t belong to them?
I’m not a victim.
I’d rather die than let anyone make me one.
As he presses closer, I feel for the cold steel beneath my bodice. My fingers curl around the gun, and before he can realize what’s happening, I pull it free. The sound of the safety clicking off is loud in the silence.
His eyes widen, but he’s too late.
I don’t think.
I don’t hesitate.
He deserves this.
I cannot let him walk free, cannot allow him to continue this, to leave another victim in his wake.
My finger tightens around the trigger, and the night erupts with the sharp, unforgiving crack of gunfire. The man stumbles back, clutching his chest as blood blooms across his shirt like a dark flower. Shock paints his face as he collapses to the ground, gasping for air that won’t come.
I stand there.
Frozen.
The gun trembles in my grip. My vision sharpens and dulls in waves, my ears ringing.
This is the second time in three months.
