Chapter 12 Laura
TWELVE
LAURA
Oh, fuck. Of all the times to get preyed on by petty criminals.
“Hey, asshole,” I yell back. “I've got a dashcam pointed right at you.” It's a lie, but he doesn't know that.
A sharp rap rings out on my trunk, and I can't help the shriek escaping me. He hit my baby: my beautiful, gorgeous, unmarked BMW!
“Fucking throw that out too, you dumb bitch,” he snarls.
“I strongly dislike their tone.” Dom’s scales click while he makes a fist with one hand.
“Me too. Petty criminals. We'll drive away, or try to, except they're in the way of me reversing.”
“Can you not simply run into them?”
“No, they can charge me for reckless driving. And it'll damage my car,” I add as an afterthought.
His huge hand settles on mine. “You are afraid?”
“No,” I say automatically, but then I realize it's a lie. “Well, a little. They're criminals, anything can happen.”
“Excuse me.” Dom unbuckles himself and opens the passenger door, sliding out and shutting it before I've said another word. “Please lock this,” he calls to me. All I can see is his torso, his scales rippling dark black and silver in the streetlights.
“Don't hurt him!” I yell, locking the door with shaking fingers.
“That depends on how fast you toss your cards out, love,” the would-be thief says.
“I'm not talking to you!” I grip the steering wheel so hard one of my nails goes pinging off. Shit. What do I do now?
Laughter echoes around the car and my stomach turns. How many of them are there?
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 and charges 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.
Fucking hell 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, eyes burning a 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 watched very 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.
“Sit,” I tell Dom, pointing to the center of the room.
He kneels slowly on the vintage wooden boards worn smooth by their previous life so they're silky soft. He keeps one hand pressing the towel to his shoulder; I can't see any blood soaking through, which is good.
Keeping my voice quiet and calm, I explain, “I'm going to clean you up and check for deep wounds and bruising, okay?”
“Yes.” He lifts the cloth and I brace myself for a fountain of crimson.
None appears. His shoulder is covered in old smears, sure, but it seems the bleeding stopped.
I rip open a packet of wipes and dab him gently. “Sorry if this stings.”
“It doesn't.” He watches my hands work, gaze sliding up to my face, jaw working.
I wipe his muscled shoulder all clean, and wince at the line of cracked scales, some snapped down the middle and others crushed in a spiderweb. They're a light pink with lilac along the broken edges, and I'm extra gentle touching those.
“Does that hurt?”
“No, Law-rah.” He rolls his shoulder underneath my hands, and I hiss at him.
“Be careful! I still haven't found the wound.”
“My nanites healed the injury on the car ride.”
I slowly straighten up. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.” They all have little nanites running through their blood, knitting them up from bumps and scrapes and helping them translate what we're saying.
“I didn't know they could do big things like that,” I explain, flushing.
Now I feel silly for fussing. “Um. Can I help with the scales? They look painful.”
He glances down at them. “They don't hurt. They'll take a human week or so to regrow. Until then, this will be a weak spot in my armor.”
Okay. Phew. He's alright.
All of a sudden the adrenaline leaves me and I slump to the floor beside him.
His arms snake out to catch me around my waist, and I lean into his strength. “That… that was scary.”
“I wouldn't have let them hurt you,” he says quietly.
“Not that.” I shudder. “You took a big smack with a crowbar, it… it gouged your shoulder.” I shudder from the memory of the prongs sinking into him.
He meets my eyes. “Yes. Your orders were not to harm them. I let them hit what they thought would be a critical strike to lure them closer so I could scare them off.”
I frown. “Wait. You let them strike you?”
“Yes. It worked, too, but then you came out of the car and I had to end it quickly after that.”
I remembered the roar he made, how he flung that guy like a frisbee. “Ah. I didn't realize.”
And now I feel doubly silly. Of course he knows what he's doing when it comes to fighting, he's an alien enforcer.
Surrounding us are the splayed first aid pieces, the open bag gaping the way a passed out freshman would, and my shoes tossed aside. It's a mess. I'm a mess, and I can't seem to get it together.
My life is falling apart.
“I was so scared,” I admit.
He cups my hands in his big warm ones. “In future, you'll know you won't be in any danger when I'm near.”
“Not scared for me, I was scared for you.”
He freezes, muscles bunching, and then his eyes soften. “I'm sorry to be a source of worry.”
Oh, this guy. “Enough of that. You're going to get cared for, whether you're used to it or not.”
His mouth drops open. Then a small smile spreads across his face. “Yes, Law-rah.”
I could melt in the adoring gaze he gives me, as worshipful as the most devout attendant.
His large hands slide up my arms, the callouses gently scraping along my skin, waking every nerve in their wake. “The spikes are gone. Good,” he says.