Page 46 of Border Control
Dom paces to the back of my BMW, facing off against the thugs. One of them taunts, “Hey, fuck face, wanna be a hero? I—fucking hell, he's huge! Hey, stop there. Stop!”
Wham.Then dead silence. I don't know what that was, but Dom’s broad back is still upright. He's a foot taller than the thieves, but there are three of them, and they're not playing around.
I fumble for my handbag to grab my phone, trying to wrestle my breathing under control.
“I suggest you leave,” Dom says, and I nearly sag. He's alright. “I'm not authorized to euthanize you…yet.”
I jump at the loud clatter of metal as Dom throws something silver to the sidewalk. It's a crowbar; that noise must have been one of them hitting him, but he grabbed their weapon.
“What are you?” a thief chokes out.
“What I am doesn't matter,” Dom says. “What matters is what you're going to do next.”
A shadow darts in the dark, a flash of red from my brake lights playing up a metal crowbar raised overhead. Before I can shout a warning, one of them swipes down hard on Dom’s back with a sickening clang.
The alien grunts, swivels and shoves his attacker down, not even slowed by the blow. The first would-be thief gets brave andcharges at his back, but Dom spins to face him with fists raised and he skids to a halt.
I press my hands to my cheeks. Fuck, fuck, what can I do? I've never been in a fight before!
I grab my phone and start recording so we can report these assholes, willing my hands to be still so the footage isn't blurry budget horror film. Dom lashes out like a vengeful beast to keep the increasingly terrified thugs at bay, their faces morphing into pale terror.
“Wait, what the fuck am I doing?” I can't send this evidence to the police! I try to hit stop and instead drop my phone. I’m such a jolt-head idiot!
A wet slap on the back window makes my attention snap up. A spray of dark liquid splattered across it in a thin line; I stare at it, not able to process.
As I watch, frozen, the thief swipes again, and Dom dodges but slower this time. The crowbar’s hooked end digs into his right shoulder, and his back arches in silent agony. He staggers, hunching over, and the thieves close in.
Fuckinghell no.No one's allowed to hurt him! Yanking my seatbelt off so fast I nearly smash the clip through the driver's window, I throw open the door. “Leave him alone!”
The thieves’ heads all dart up at me, but then Dom roars. He tackles one man, wrenching him off his feet and tosses him across the scrubby grass of the park to land a good ten yards away, then whirls to face the others, eyesburninga hellish bright purple.
The other two flail with their crowbars to keep him at bay, smacking his chest and torso. Horrific cracks ring out. Dom catches a crowbar on a sideways swing and tosses it to the stones with a clatter, then goes for the last one.
“Enough!” The thief on the grass cries, rolling away. “Bail!” They scatter into the night as quickly as they came, leaving their crowbars—and therefore their fingerprints.
I breathe in gulps of cold air, smelling iron. Blood. “Dom, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
His breath curls in the air like dragon smoke as he watches the thieves flee. Then he’s in front of me, running his huge hands up my arms. “Law-rah, you were safe inside the vehicle, I wouldn't have let them approach you.”
I'm a modern woman, I'm not getting weak legs from having a tall strong guy fight to protect me. Definitely.
Which is why I sag against the car to hold me up.
“I…” What was I saying? Oh, yes, arguing with him. “You were hit, you—oh fuck!”
Dark red glides from the gouge in his right shoulder, trickling down his indigo and purple scales. They're cracked in a fault line across his breast.
I snap into crisis mode, opening my trunk. “Can you walk?” I demand, grabbing the emergency towel I keep in there for freak rainstorms before client meetings. I get on tiptoe and press it against his shoulder to staunch the blood flow. “We have to get to my apartment, I have a proper first aid kit there.”
“Law-rah, I’m not hurt, I?—”
“Don't argue with me, come on.” I hustle him into the passenger seat, leaning over to strap him in.
He watches me with wide eyes, but he goes quiet at least. I fumble for my phone. “Battery’s nearly dead,” I hiss, but I can’t call an ambulance.
I drive like a madwoman, park in my space and hurry him up to my apartment. Fortunately we don't see anyone in the parking garage. We bundle into my elevator with no issue, and while there's cameras in the building, they're often not watchedvery closely. My heart pounds like I ran a marathon, and my legs shake as if I did it in heels.
I shove my keys into the office door and dart in, throwing off my shoes. A heavy duty first aid kit sits under my desk and I unzip it so fast bandages and antiseptic wipes go sliding like Bambi on the ice. Fuck, I'm a mess, but I have to project calm. Pretend I know what I'm doing.
