Chapter 30 He Unzipped His Pants. So I Unhinged His Jaw.
HE UNZIPPED HIS PANTS. SO I UNHINGED HIS JAW.
CAL
Izzy's been avoiding me all morning.
She thinks I haven't noticed.
But I have.
She's been sidestepping me, moving through the store like she's got blinders on, keeping her head down, avoiding eye contact. She rushes from one department to the next, all business, all focus—except I know her well enough now to see that it's forced.
Gone is our usual rhythm—the playful exchanges, the knowing glances across the floor, the slight curve of her lips when I catch her eye. Instead, there's a deliberate distance, a careful choreography to stay out of my orbit.
And I let her.
I give her space, respecting the invisible boundary she's drawn. I don't ambush her between the aisles or manufacture reasons to be in her presence. Because I understand what she needs right now—time to process, to sort through the tangled mess of emotions after our kiss.
She'll come back to me when she's ready. So I give her space. But that doesn't mean I'm not watching.
By the time the store starts winding down for the day, I'm back in the security suite, leaned back in my chair, eyes locked on one monitor.
Izzy’s sitting in her office. Her phone is clutched in her hand, but she remains still—no scrolling through messages, no typing emails, no productive movement whatsoever. Just staring, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
I know exactly what she's doing.
Working up the courage.
Her fingers flex around her phone, loosening, tightening. A deep breath in, then out.
She calls him.
I watch her closely, tracking every micro-expression, every shift in her features. The moment he answers, I see the relief cross her face.
Then, annoyance.
I already know. Evan's being a dick. She's trying to meet up with him. He's making it difficult. But she's pushing through it. She's doing it anyway. And even from here, I can tell she's holding firm.
Another thirty minutes pass. I'm watching the clock, waiting, ready.
"Callahan."
I press a finger to my earpiece. The plastic is cool against my skin. "Yeah."
"Got a guy asking for Russo." It's Ramirez calling from the front of the store.
I knew this was coming.
Through gritted teeth, I force myself to take a slow breath before I speak. Because this is her moment. She needs to do this on her own. Even though every instinct is clawing to intervene.
"Call her. Let her know. Then take him up."
Ramirez confirms and I go back to watching.
The security feed shows Evan strutting through the main entrance, chin lifted with his usual arrogance.
Ramirez escorts him through the sales floor.
They reach her office door, and he hesitates, giving Izzy a silent, questioning look. She responds with a small nod.
Ramirez lingers, reluctant. Then he leaves them alone. I turn on the audio feed, the soft click of the switch echoing in the quiet room. And I listen.
Izzy tells him it's over. She stands her ground without apology or compromise. She refuses to be manipulated by his tactics.
I'm so fucking proud of her, because he's trying. He's doing what men like him always do—twisting words, turning it around, making himself the victim, grasping at any thread of control he has left. But she's not falling for it.
She sees through his manipulation now. The fog has lifted, and she recognizes the toxic patterns that once ensnared her. The strength she's displaying—this quiet, resolute defiance—is beautiful to witness.
But then the atmosphere transforms. I see it before she does.
Before she even realizes what's about to happen.
It starts small. His shoulders tighten, his hands flex, his whole body coils, winding up like a spring ready to snap.
A dangerous energy radiates from him—his posture rigid, his breathing shallow.
I recognize it instantly, because I've seen it before.
Too many times. I saw it overseas when I was deployed.
Saw it in soldiers who felt trapped, their rationality replaced by primal instinct.
Combatants who believed violence was their only remaining option.
Aggressors whose rage consumed them so completely that it controlled their actions, overriding all reason and restraint.
The warning signs are unmistakable.
I can predict what comes next with terrifying clarity.
I can read the intent in every line of Evan's body before Izzy has any chance to react.
I see it written all over Evan's face— the sheer, unfiltered rage of a man who's about to lose control.
My entire body tenses, my pulse kicking into overdrive.
I need to get to her.
I need to move.
But I already know—
I won't make it in time.
I run. I don't think. I don't hesitate. I bolt out of the security suite, my legs moving before my brain fully catches up, pushing through the hall, dodging employees and customers alike.
The store's ambient noise—conversations, music, footsteps—blurs into white noise as my focus narrows to a single point.
I know precisely how long it takes to get to Izzy's office.
I can count every stride between here and there.
I can calculate the seconds ticking away as I run, each one bringing her closer to danger.
But I don't have seconds.
She's alone.
With him.
And that is the most dangerous place she could be. I yank my phone out of my pocket as I run, pulling up the security feed, my breath heavy, my pulse thudding in my ears. The screen shows a nightmare unfolding.
Izzy is on the ground.
Pinned beneath him.
Evan is over her, pressing her down, knees bracketing her body, one hand tangled in the torn fabric of her blouse. His other hand is—
I see it.
He's reaching down. He's about to pull her panties down. He's unbuckling his belt. The metallic jingle is barely audible.
And I—
I see red.
Pure fucking red.
I shove through a group of customers, barking orders into my earpiece. "All available security, get to Isabella Russo's office NOW."
I don't care if I'm the one to get there first. That doesn't matter. What matters is that she's safe.
What matters is stopping him before—
I shove a stock cart out of my way, sending it crashing into a display. Glass shatters, perfume bottles explode on impact, their sickeningly sweet scent filling the air. Somewhere in the distance, I hear someone yell.
I don't care.
I don't stop.
I reach her office.
The door is locked.
Not a problem.
I kick it in.
The wood splinters beneath my boot, the handle cracking as the door slams open, crashing against the wall. Fragments of wood scatter across the carpet.
And inside—
Izzy isn't moving. Evan is on top of her.
His zipper is down.
His hand is on her thigh.
His face snaps up in shock.
And that's when I fucking lose it.
I grab him by the collar of his stupid fucking Oxford, wrenching him off her with a force that nearly dislocates his shoulder. He lets out a choked noise, stumbling, hands flailing. The fabric of his designer shirt tears under my grip.
I don't give him time to react. I don't give him time to beg, or run, or fucking breathe.
I swing.
My fist connects with his face, hard and fast, the sickening crunch of cartilage and bone splitting through the air. The impact sends shock waves up my arm.
His head snaps back.
He crashes to the floor, limp. A tooth skitters across the carpet.
Unconscious.
One punch.
That's all it takes. Because I know what I'm doing. Because I could have killed him. The thought crosses my mind like a dark temptation. The world might be better without men like him in it. Izzy would never have to fear him again.
But I know—I know—that if I do, she'll blame herself.
Even if she doesn't say it out loud. Even if she never admits it. Her mind will twist things, warp the truth, find a way to tell herself that she had a part to play in his death. That this was her fault. And then she'll never be free of him. Not really.
So no.
I don't kill him.
I just make sure that when he wakes up, he's going to be missing his two front teeth. The implants will be painful and cost a fortune. Serves him right.
I take a slow breath, my pulse still raging. The taste of adrenaline is metallic on my tongue.
And then I turn to Izzy.
She's still unconscious, her body limp on the floor, hair fanned out beneath her like she just laid down for a nap instead of getting fucking attacked. I'm on my knees before I even realize I moved, my hands hovering over her, searching.
Checking for injuries.
Checking for...worse.
Her blouse is ripped at the front, exposing the smooth curve of her shoulder. Bruises are already starting to form along her collarbone, the side of her throat. The imprint of Evan's fingers lingers there. Purple marks imprinted like violent flowers.
My hands tighten into fists so hard my knuckles crack.
I wrestle my rage back into its cage, forcing myself to stay composed. She needs me clear-headed now—not consumed by vengeful thoughts.
I push the fabric of her skirt down. Her panties—thank God, her panties are still on. Evan hadn't gotten that far.
If I had been even a second later—
I shove the thought down, bury it beneath the cold, methodical logic I need right now.
She's breathing. That's what matters.
She's here.
And Evan didn't get to take that from her. Even still, she should still do a kit, because if he even got near her with his rancid cock, I want him put behind bars for life. I'll pull connections inside so he knows just what it feels like to have someone force themselves on you.
And it won't just be once.
I'll drain my entire bank account to make sure it happens to him day in, day out. For the rest of his miserable life.
The other guys rush in. Ramirez is first. His eyes scan the scene, landing on Evan sprawled out cold on the floor before flicking to me, then Izzy.
"Jesus," he breathes.
"She's okay," I say, my voice sounding more controlled than I actually feel. "Get that piece of shit in cuffs. Call the cops."
Ramirez and another guy move to restrain Evan's unconscious body, pulling out zip ties for now, securing his wrists behind his back.
"Does anyone have smelling salts?" My voice doesn’t betray the rage I feel underneath.
One of the guys pulls a small vial from his vest pocket, tossing it to me. I catch it easily, sliding it into mine.
Then I stand, lifting Izzy into my arms. She barely stirs, her body slack against my chest. Her weight is substantial but comforting—a reminder that she's here, she's real, she's safe now. "She doesn't need to see any of this," I mutter. "I'm taking her to Amanda's office. Handle the rest."
They nod as I walk out, holding Izzy close.
Amanda's door swings open before I even knock, and she's already talking.
"Well, well, if it isn't—"
Her eyes drop to Izzy in my arms, and concern floods her features.
"What the fuck happened?" she demands, stepping forward, almost clawing at me. "The fuck did you do to my best friend?"
"Cut it out, Amanda," I snap, dodging her hands. "I didn't hurt her."
Her eyes flare with anger, her mouth already opening to argue. And then I say it. "I would never hurt a woman—let alone MY woman."
It slips out before I even register I said it.
Amanda freezes.
Her mouth snaps shut.
I ignore my own words and keep my focus on what actually fucking matters.
"It was Evan," I tell her, voice tight with restraint. "She broke up with him and he attacked her. He's being arrested down the hall. I didn't want her to wake up and see that."
Amanda stares at me for a long second, then exhales, pressing her lips together.
"She should see a doctor," she says, voice quieter now.
"Yes," I say. "But, in the meantime, I'm a licensed paramedic."
Amanda hesitates, but after a second, she nods.
"Fine," she mutters. "I'll leave you alone, but if anything seems off—"
"I'll call you," I finish for her.
She nods again, reluctant but trusting. And then she steps out of the room, closing the door behind her.
I walk Izzy over to the couch, lowering her down carefully, as if she's made of glass. I pull out the smelling salts, crack them open, and gently hold them beneath her nose. The ammonia scent fills the air.
"Come back to me, pretty girl," I murmur.
Her eyelids flutter.