Under His Protection

Chapter 1

ONE

HENRY SALMAN

As much as some people may pretend otherwise, the world isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. Monsters are real—living breathing assholes that walk among us—and most of the time they wear the faces, and have the personalities, of the people we love and trust the most.

It’s a sad and twisted fact. A reality I’ve known all my life and hated for just as long, which is the reason I’m doubled over and gasping for air.

The very real knee to the nuts might be a little to blame, as well.

Molly flutters around me, patting my back, pushing my damp hair off my sweaty forehead, spewing apologies as I fight back a wave of tears.

She’s new to my self-defense class; just learning the basics. I’m not so sure she shouldn’t be advanced to the next class, with a knee like hers.

It’s probably a good thing I don’t want children because my chances of having them just went way, way down. Again.

“Good job.” I deserve praise for managing to speak when all I want to do is fall to the ground, curl in on myself, and scream. Or cry. There’s no shame in crying. Only, I don’t want to make Molly feel any guiltier for an accident than she already does. “Class is dismissed for the day.”

Never mind that we only started ten minutes ago. No one is going to begrudge me a day off, not after Molly’s perfect fucking aim.

“I’m really sorry, Henry.” Molly sounds as close to tears as I am.

“Apology accepted.” So what if I sound a little more choked than usual? I just took a knee to the nuts. “You owe me one. Be here next week—knee like that needs proper training.” I try for a smile but it falls flat.

Molly, her eyes damp and her lip wobbling, looks unconvinced.

“Seriously.” I manage to stand upright and not double over in pain again. My balls throb with a heartbeat of their own. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last student to knee me in the nuts. Come back next week. Learn what to do next.”

This class is important to her, to so many people like her. I’ll take a knee to the nuts every week for the rest of my life if necessary.

“If you’re sure?” Her voice shakes as she rubs at her eye, smearing her eyeliner.

I nod. “I’m sure. Dead serious, in fact. Be here next week or I’ll send your girl squad after you.” They’ll drag her back, make sure she keeps coming to class until the next knee she plants into a pair of nuts isn’t accidental.

“Okay. I really am sorry.” She collects her bag and leaves with the very girls I threatened to send after her if she attempts to skip next week.

I stumble across the room and sink into a chair with a soft moan of pain as soon as the last student leaves.

Tonight, I’ll be taking a handful of pain pills and spending a little extra time in the tub. Not like I have anything else to do on a Friday night.

My lack of sex life is another point in my favor. No booty-calls to blow off for the next week as my balls recover from assault with a deadly weapon. For once, I’m grateful.

“Here.” An ice pack is shoved under my nose and shaken. “For your sad sack.”

Any other day, I’d tell River Marshall to fuck off. Today, I accept his offering.

“A thank you wouldn’t be remiss.”

“ Never show remorse. Never show gratitude. Both are binding contracts; debt will get a man killed faster than disobedience. Understand, boy?”

I shake the old lesson free, and side eye River. He’s a nice enough dude, if a little weird. He and his husband, Forest, give me twisted vibes. I try not to think too hard about why—some things are best left unexamined.

“Thanks.” Even after all these years, the single word cuts the back of my throat and leaves my tongue bloody. I wait for a blow that’s never coming. Gratitude isn’t currency. Not anymore.

River’s grin is wide. Smug. “I’ll take it.”

I roll my eyes and ice my sad sack. “Where’s your husband?”

Usually by this time, he’s here to drag River home or lurking in the corner while River finishes any admin tasks for the day.

“He’s here.” River shoves his hands into his pockets and glances towards the door, as if expecting his husband to suddenly appear. When he doesn’t, his shoulders fall. “Probably still outside on the phone with our—his mother.”

I arch a brow. Shit like that is why he and his self-described husband make my spidey senses tingle. That’s not a normal fucking slip-up.

Sure, lots of people refer to their partner’s caretaker growing up as Mom, Dad or whatever familial title is most fitting, but never in that particular way.

Our .

River turns red, coughs into his hand and flees without so much as a goodbye or a glance backwards. No doubt rushing to his husband to tell him about his faux pas.

I absolutely refuse to analyze what his statement seems to indicate. What two consenting, grown-ass men get up to in their spare time is none of my fucking business. Whether they share DNA or not.

I learned a long time ago to look the other way for all kinds of shit, including relationships that can very well be classified as illegal, at best.

Those two might be weird as fuck—in my own personal opinion—but they aren’t hurting anyone as far as I know. So long as that remains true and they’re happy with their arrangement, whatever that may be, more power to them.

I close my eyes and slump in the chair, pressing the ice pack more securely against my nuts. It’s going to be another fifteen or twenty minutes before I feel brave enough to get up, collect my bag and head home.

Unfortunately tomorrow, with it being Saturday, I’ll be at the boxing gym working with a colorful assortment of people looking for a safe place to let out some of their pent-up aggression.

Sunday, I’ll be able to stay my ass home and recover from any other injuries I incur. Maybe on Monday, if my nuts are still protesting being attached to my body, I’ll skip work altogether.

Perks of being self-employed. No one can ride my ass about taking a sick day.

“Hey!”

I crack open my eyes; there’s a frat boy standing in the studio doorway. Just seeing his backward ball cap and polo shirt is annoying. “You done in here?”

I scoff. “Fuck off. Do I look done?”

I’m holding an ice pack to my balls.

And not because I’m feeling kinky.

His gaze skips over me before his mouth twitches. “Oh. Ouch. Good luck with that, bruh.”

If my hands weren’t full, I’d flip him off. Instead, I settle for glaring until he scurries away.

Unfortunately, the peace doesn’t last.

“Excuse me.” I clench my jaw. What now? “Is this the self-defense class hosted by Henry um . . . Salman? Did I miss it?”

I look up to see a young man in the doorway. He’s cute—dark brown hair, curly undercut, shorter than me by at least a whole head, and lean like a runner.

The green crop-top he’s wearing exposes everything below his belly button. Despite the ache in my balls, my mouth goes dry. How willing would he be to let me explore the skin on his abdomen with my tongue before or after class?

His skinny jeans, riding low on his hips and clinging to his thighs like a second skin, should be outlawed. I’m willing to commit crimes to see them on my bedroom floor. Preferably when I don’t feel like detaching my balls.

His brow is furrowed, his bottom lip caught between straight white teeth. He’s peering down at a sheet of paper—one of the flyers I put up around the university at the start of the semester, if I had to guess.

Typically, my classes are made up almost entirely of young women—those who are trying to take back control, or ensure they never lose it.

Sometimes, I get young men like this. A twink I’d like to take a bite out of myself who has had a sexual encounter turn sour, or is being bullied by his classmates.

Or maybe he’s just someone who wants to make sure if either of those two things ever happens, he can take control of the situation with confidence.

I shouldn’t be checking him out. He’s looking for self-defense lessons, not a hookup.

Is both an option? I’m totally on board with teaching him how to defend himself and suck my cock.

“You’ll have to fill out a couple forms if you want to take lessons.” I flex my thighs, grimace at the twinge between my legs, but push to my feet so I can get the paperwork he needs.

Pain is an old friend of mine, and I’ve never let it slow me down.

Not then. Not now.

The young man nods as he steps into the room. He lifts his head. Eyes the color of summer storm clouds widen. His pupils blow wide as his lips part. “Sebastian?”