His to Save (Forever His #8)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Priscilla

My fingers cramp as I shelve the last romance novel of the night, the happy couple on the cover mocking me with their perfect smiles and entwined bodies.

Twenty-four years old and I've never known that kind of touch.

The bookstore is quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional car passing on the street outside.

Another day done. Another night heading home to my empty apartment where the only thing waiting for me is leftover Chinese takeout and the deafening silence of my own thoughts.

"Goodnight, Priscilla," my manager calls from the back office. "Don't forget to set the alarm."

I mumble a response, already halfway through the routine. Key in the code. Flick off the main lights. Check the register one last time. The mundane rhythm of my existence beats on like a dull headache.

Sometimes I wonder if anyone would notice if I just…disappeared. My coworkers would, I guess, but only because they'd have to cover my shifts. That's what happens when you keep people at arm's length for years. You become a ghost while still breathing.

I tug my cardigan tighter around my body, a shield against more than just the evening chill. My reflection in the darkened storefront window stares back at me—pale skin, wide hazel eyes, dark hair tucked nervously behind my ear. I look like a frightened rabbit. Always have.

The parking lot behind the bookstore is poorly lit—something I've complained about, but the owner doesn't see the point in spending money on better lighting when the store closes before dark in summer.

But it's fall now, and darkness comes earlier.

Shadows stretch between the few parked cars, reaching like fingers across the cracked asphalt.

My car sits alone at the far end, a sad little Honda that's seen better days. I dig in my purse for my keys, the weight of exhaustion pressing on my shoulders. One foot in front of the other. Just get home. Just get through another day.

The sound hits me first—tires screeching against pavement. My head snaps up as headlights blind me, a dark van careening into the lot way too fast. Something's wrong. My body knows it before my mind catches up, that primal instinct flaring to life.

Run.

I don't make it three steps before the van door slides open with a metallic screech. Two men in black masks leap out, moving with terrifying purpose.

"Grab her! Quick!"

My purse drops. My keys clatter to the ground. I open my mouth to scream but one of them is on me in seconds, a gloved hand clamping over my lips, the smell of leather and sweat filling my nostrils. My feet leave the ground as he lifts me, my body thrashing against his hold.

"Stop fucking squirming!" he hisses in my ear, his arm like an iron bar across my chest.

The second man approaches with zip ties. Oh God. This is really happening. I'm being taken.

Panic explodes through me like wildfire.

I bite down hard on the gloved hand, tasting the bitter leather.

He curses but doesn't let go. My legs kick wildly, connecting with something—his shin maybe—but it doesn't matter.

He's too strong, and I'm too small, too weak, too everything I've always feared I was.

"Hurry the fuck up!" the man holding me barks at his partner.

I feel the cold plastic of the zip tie brush against my wrist, and something snaps inside me. I scream behind his hand, the sound muffled but desperate. I thrash harder, elbow connecting with his ribs. He grunts but tightens his grip until I can barely breathe.

"Someone help me!" I manage to shriek when his hand slips for a second. "Please!"

The words echo in the empty lot. No one's coming. No one's going to save me.

And then—something changes in the air. A shift. A presence.

A shadow detaches from the darkness between buildings, massive and moving with terrifying speed. Before I can process what's happening, the man with the zip ties goes flying backward, his body hitting the side of the van with a sickening thud.

The one holding me loosens his grip in shock, and I slip down, legs wobbling like a newborn colt's. I stumble away, gasping for breath, watching as this...this force of nature tears into my attackers.

He's enormous. Six and a half feet at least, with shoulders so broad they block out the streetlight behind him. He moves with lethal precision, fist connecting with the first attacker's jaw with a crack I can hear from where I stand. The man drops like a stone.

The one who held me pulls a knife, lunging forward with a desperate yell. The giant sidesteps, grabs the attacker's wrist, and twists. Another crack. A howl of pain. The knife clatters to the ground as the man's arm bends at an angle arms shouldn't bend.

"Who sent you?" My rescuer's voice is a low rumble, like thunder before a storm.

The masked man whimpers something I can't hear.

"Wrong answer."

What happens next makes me gag. A series of brutal punches, each one landing with sickening precision. When he finally drops the limp body, both attackers are groaning on the ground, one clutching his clearly broken arm.

Then he turns to me.

Oh.

Oh my God.

Dark eyes lock onto mine, burning with an intensity that steals my breath all over again. His face is all hard angles, stubbled jaw clenched tight, short dark hair with flecks of silver at the temples. A scar runs across his left eyebrow. His knuckles are bleeding.

He stalks toward me, and despite him having just saved me, I find myself backing up until I hit my car. He's just so...overwhelming. Radiating danger and power with every step.

"You're safe now, little girl," he growls, stopping just inches away, his massive frame completely dwarfing mine.

Little girl? I'm twenty-four, but the way he says it sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Not entirely unpleasant. What is wrong with me?

"Th-thank you," I stammer, pressing myself harder against my car door. "Who—who are you?"

"Woodrow." He doesn't offer a last name. Just keeps staring at me with those intense eyes, like he's memorizing every inch of my face. "They won't touch you again."

The possessive way he says it makes something flutter low in my belly. But there's fear too, hot and sharp. This man just incapacitated two attackers without breaking a sweat. What else is he capable of?

"I should call the police," I whisper, fumbling for my phone.

"No." His hand shoots out, not touching me but blocking my movement. "No police."

"But those men—"

"Will be dealt with."

The cold certainty in his voice makes me shudder.

I can hear the men groaning, trying to crawl back to their van.

Woodrow doesn't even look at them. He's focused entirely on me, his gaze traveling down my body and back up again, not leering but.

..assessing. Like he's checking for injuries. Like I belong to him somehow.

"How did you—why were you—" I can't form complete sentences. My heart is still racing, adrenaline making my thoughts scatter like marbles.

He takes a step closer. I can feel the heat radiating off his body now. "I've got you," he says, softer but no less intense. "No one's going to hurt you. Not while I'm around."

I should be grateful. I am grateful. But something about him, about this whole situation, makes me take a wobbly step sideways, away from his overwhelming presence.

“Do we need to call the police? Do anything.” I shake my head, my mind swirling. “I need to go home," I finally say, my voice small. "Thank you again, but I—I should go."

A muscle ticks in his jaw and he shakes his head. “You’re coming with me.”

Uh-oh.