Chapter Five #2
I caught the shift of his weight, the sudden lunge of his arm, the exact placement of his palm heading for the small of her back. She didn’t see a thing. She only saw the register. His fingers spread across her spine, possessive and deliberate.
Marci went rigid. Every muscle locked, echoing the moment behind the dumpster when Mercer’s car door slammed and she turned to stone. Shock drowned her in an instant. That kind of stillness wasn’t surprise. It came from survival. It came from training born of fear.
My body reacted before thought kicked in. One step. Then another. My hand clamped around the drunk’s wrist hard enough for bones to shift under the pressure. I yanked his arm away from her so fast his barstool skidded.
“Put a hand on her again” -- I kept my voice low enough to be heard only by him -- “and you lose it.”
The bar roared on as if nothing had happened. Pool balls cracked. Laughter cut across the room. Someone shouted about the next round. Inside this small pocket of space, silence wrapped around us.
The drunk stared at me. Fear finally cut through the alcohol haze and settled in his eyes.
His wrist felt thin in my grip. I could have snapped the fragile bone under a quick twist. One clean break, maybe two.
Pain sharp enough to ensure he never tried this again.
The urge rode high in my bloodstream, fed by every flash of panic I had seen from Marci, every nightmare she hadn’t spoken aloud, every bruise some man had once left on her skin.
Police attention would follow a broken wrist. Cameras and witnesses guaranteed trouble. I forced my fingers to loosen even though every muscle in me wanted to crush bone.
A short, strangled noise escaped the drunk’s throat.
“I’m sorry,” he babbled. “Didn’t mean anything, I swear, I was just --”
“Out.” I let go of his wrist. “You have ten seconds before I decide to teach you better manners.”
He tripped over his own feet scrambling away. His friends didn’t move to defend him. They didn’t even look up from their drinks. Men always noticed when a line was crossed like he’d just done. They just didn’t care until consequences arrived. Now consequences had arrived.
The door banged shut behind him. Less than a minute later, red taillights vanished down the road.
Only after he left did I turn toward Marci.
The glass she’d been holding sat on the bar.
Her fingers gripped the countertop so hard her knuckles turned white.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the spot the drunk had occupied, like she was still trying to understand how he’d gotten so close to her without warning.
Her breathing went shallow and fast. Panic threatened.
“Hey.” My voice softened. I stepped closer but kept my hands to myself. “You’re safe. He’s gone.”
A nod came, but the movement looked mechanical rather than reassuring.
She lifted her gaze to mine. A storm of emotions swirled there -- gratitude, confusion, maybe even alarm at how fast I had moved and how close I’d come to violence. She had seen exactly what I had been ready to do.
My hands trembled. I glanced down and noticed the shake for the first time. Rage and adrenaline needed a target. A bar towel gave me one. I grabbed it and wiped along the counter, too forceful, too focused, trying to burn off energy before the urge to punch something took control.
Marci watched for several seconds, unreadable. She already knew the darker parts of me existed. Now she’d witnessed them up close. A few wrong words or a step backward from her and I would be standing here alone, knowing I had scared her off.
“Ace.”
Her voice stopped the shaking more than the towel ever could. I looked at her and braced myself.
She didn’t recoil. She didn’t flinch. She lifted her hand slowly, her fingers hovering over my forearm before she rested them against my skin. Light touch. Warm touch. No fear.
Relief hit hard.
“Thank you,” she said.
A hundred responses fought to get out -- she didn’t owe me thanks, she deserved safety, I should have stepped in sooner -- but none of them came out. She already knew what I wanted to say. Her eyes reflected complete understanding, no words needed.
“If he ever --” I began.
“I know.” Her soft tone didn’t hide her strength. She squeezed my arm gently. “I know.”
The noise of the bar washed back in. Maui watched from his stool, serious and steady, ready if I needed backup.
Ravager and Rebel had pushed halfway out of their booth at the start, prepared to drop a man without hesitation, though they settled now the threat was gone.
Most of the customers hadn’t noticed a thing.
Before tonight, Marci had seen the protector in me -- someone who locked doors, scanned windows, learned escape routes. Tonight, she saw the part of me I rarely let out unless someone crossed a line. The part delivering consequences without hesitation.
She didn’t step away from the revelation.
Her hand remained on my arm for a moment longer, both of us holding still in the middle of the noise and chaos. Her touch steadied me more than the whiskey ever could. The tremor left my hands. The rage faded to something manageable.
A part of me wanted to close the distance between us, to shield her using my body rather than just my presence. Another part understood timing mattered. She needed to stand on her own feet again before I touched her.
The next customer waved for a drink, and Marci pulled her hand away to take the order. Her smile wasn’t perfect yet, but real enough to show she was coming back to herself.
I watched her walk toward the other end of the bar. Her steps still held a faint shakiness, but she kept moving. She didn’t hide behind me. She didn’t stop working. She didn’t collapse.
A survivor stood in front of me, not a victim.
Maui leaned closer when I approached to refill his glass. “Handled clean. Handled fast.”
I didn’t respond.
“You did good,” he added under his breath. “Better than breaking the guy’s wrist in front of half the county.”
I still didn’t respond.
His next words landed heavy. “You’re in deep, brother.”
No argument came to mind. He was right.
I was in deep enough to risk fights I shouldn’t risk, to rearrange every part of myself to keep her protected, to stop seeing the world in general terms of threats and see it in specific terms of who might touch her again and how to stop them.
Nothing else mattered. Not tonight.
Across the bar, Marci brushed her hair behind her ear and laughed. The sound gripped my chest, then released every knot inside me at the same time.
She was still here. Still working. Still breathing. Still safe.
That was enough for now.
* * *
Marci
Nightmares never arrived in full scenes.
Shredded flashes struck first. Mercer’s mouth near my ear.
Hands wrapped around my throat, bone-deep certainty he planned to finish what he started.
A badge lifted toward someone I couldn’t see.
His calm voice labeled me unstable, told strangers he needed to “bring me home,” while I tried to scream without sound.
My body shot upright before thought returned.
A trapped scream stayed behind my teeth while my muscles locked in terror.
The room looked wrong for a few seconds.
Shadows didn’t match memories. The air lacked motel bleach or the faint smell of the hardware store downstairs. A wave of confusion crashed hard.
Recognition arrived slowly. Ace’s house. His bedroom. His bed.
My lungs didn’t accept that truth. Breath came shallow and fast, no matter how my brain insisted I was protected here.
Fingers twisted into the sheets -- dark blue cotton carrying his scent and laundry soap.
The sensation of Mercer’s palms still clung to my skin.
My body refused to believe any room could be safe.
Light broke through the dark as the door opened. I flinched hard, spine hitting the headboard, every nerve ready for impact.
Ace stood in the doorway. No threat. Just Ace. He gripped the frame like his restraint mattered as much as my panic.
“You’re safe.” Sleep roughened his voice, but confidence never wavered. “Marci, you’re safe.”
I nodded because words weren’t possible. He stayed where he was rather than rushing closer. Patience gave my mind room to catch up. My vision adjusted enough to make out bare shoulders, loose sweatpants, and sleep-tousled hair. Somehow he heard me through the door.
“Can I come in?”
Another silent nod. He approached slowly, every step deliberate. No sudden movements. No attempt to loom over me or force comfort. He took a seat on the edge of the mattress, leaving space between us.
He nodded toward the nightstand. “Water is right there. Want some?”
My hand shook so much I nearly tipped the glass. He steadied it, not touching me, just the glass. Cool water washed away the taste of adrenaline and fear.
“He was here,” I whispered. “In the dream. He found me. I tried to tell people what he’d done, and no one listened.”
Ace’s jaw clenched. A muscle twitched near his cheek. “Mercer is nowhere near this house. He isn’t touching you.”
“You don’t know what he can do.”
“I know what I can do.” His tone dropped lower. “He would have to go through me first. Through the club. No way in hell we let someone drag you back to that life.”
A part of me ached to give him everything I was, every fractured piece included. Another part, the scarred and exhausted part, remembered how easily protection failed once before.
My breath stalled again, my chest tightened brutally. Darkness tugged at the edges of my vision, and I clamped my hands around the sheets, then released, reaching for something solid. Instinct drove my palm to his arm. I held on like gravity had turned sideways.
“Breathe.” He angled closer. “In for four. You did it last time.”
Counting didn’t come. Air refused to move. A broken sound scraped out of my throat.
“All right,” he murmured. “Hold on.”
He shifted in steady, deliberate motions, waiting for my reaction at every small adjustment. “I’m going to lie beside you. On top of the covers. Only if you want me there.”
The alternative -- him leaving -- felt far worse. I gave a tiny nod.
He stretched out next to me, body close without trapping me. Warmth spread along my side, steady and safe rather than dangerous. His arm settled above the blanket, creating a barrier strong enough to anchor my spiraling thoughts.
“I’m here,” he whispered near my temple. “Not going anywhere.”
I pressed my forehead into his shoulder before I realized I’d moved. My hand stayed locked around his bicep. His scent and body heat drowned the phantom feel of Mercer’s hands. No cologne. No sweat born of terror. Just Ace. Just safety.
His heartbeat pulsed beneath my cheek -- slow, solid, unshakable. My breath started following the rhythm without effort. In. Out. In. Out. The panic receded inch by inch. He didn’t rush me. He didn’t speak again until my breathing steadied.
“There you go,” he said softly. “You’re doing great.”
A wave of exhaustion hit next, heavy enough to drag me under, and the fear of falling asleep fought back hard. Closing my eyes felt too dangerous.
“I’ll stay awake. You sleep. No one gets near you while I’m in this bed.”
“You need sleep too.”
“Later. You first.”
Arguing served no purpose. He had already decided. So I let myself settle against him, let my body sink into the mattress and his warmth, let the tension drain. He slid his fingers through my hair in a slow, soothing pattern, and my throat ached from the surge of emotion.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Rest.”
So I did. Darkness arrived without claws, no trace of Mercer’s voice, no grip closing around my throat. Real sleep washed over me for the first time in two years.
Only dawn revealed one thing: I had not woken once.
Sunlight touched the room. I found myself still pressed to his chest, his arm still anchoring me, his heartbeat still steady under my ear.
For the first time in far too long, I woke up safe.