Save Me (Townsend Legacy Book 3)

Chapter 1

Seoul, South Korea

Dae

I planned to die today anyway.

What the fuck does it matter if it’s by my doing or at the hands of the bastards my father sent to kill me?

“You should’ve never shown your fucking face around here!” the ringleader of the group, my father’s future son-in-law, says before pain sears across the right side of my face.

The hit to my jaw is quickly followed by a kick to my stomach that steals the breath from my lungs. My brain yells for me to fight back. There’re only three of them. I could hurt at least one or two of them.

Yet, with each punch, kick, or stomp I receive, my will dies a little more. Not that I had much of it in the first place. After all, I did show up at my father’s office building to kill myself.

I don’t bother curling into a ball to protect my face or ribs. The physical pain is almost unbearable, but it’ll all be over soon enough.

“Motherfucker!” someone yells. “We’re going to kill you.”

Yeah, I know. Just fucking get it over with.

I’m ready for my fate. It’s not like anyone alive will miss me. In a matter of time, it’ll all be over with. At eighteen, I’ve reached the end of my existence.

Good fucking riddance.

“What are you doing?” a female voice shrieks. I barely hear it through the ringing in my ears. “Leave him alone!”

The garbled voice sounds far away. Like I’m listening from underwater. It takes seconds, maybe minutes, for me to realize that the beating has stopped. Every part of my body aches in agony, but they aren’t hitting me anymore.

I peel my swollen eyes open.

A blurred lavender shape that vaguely resembles that of a girl stands in the distance. Light shines all around her, outlining her figure. Her brown curls whip around her shoulders.

Though it hurts like hell, my bruised, bloody lips form a smile. Or maybe a grimace.

This must be it.

This must be the angel coming to take me to the afterlife.

But then the angel yells, “Leave him alone!”

I squeeze my eyes and then open them again. No. I’m still on Earth, in this godforsaken alleyway.

“Get out of here!” one of them calls out.

“Fuck you!” another yells in heavily accented English, which is made worse by the mask he’s wearing.

They’re all wearing masks. But I’ve heard those taunting voices for the past three years.

“Leave him alone or I’ll call the police,” my angel says as she approaches.

Despite the pain in my ribs and head, my vision blurred by blood and sweat, I focus on her face. Her cinnamon eyes are narrowed, and her light brown face is stained red from anger. She’s alone, but it doesn’t stop her from confronting three masked dudes.

One of them approaches, and she quickly pulls something out of her bag, pointing it at him.

Pepper spray.

When the bastard gets within a few feet, she makes him pay with a direct shot to the face. He doubles over in pain.

At this point, I know she’s going to run away, but she surprises me by using his weakened state to knee him in the face.

He collapses like a bag of bricks, a hand covering his face.

Then she narrows her eyes on the other two, who stand in front of me, but from my position on the ground, I can see her. Her posture is erect, one foot slightly in front of the other, and her body tense.

She’s ready for a fight.

That’s when it hits me. She’s not an angel.

She’s a warrior.

The pain in my ribs and the throbbing in my head dull. Instinct has me clawing at the ground to force myself upright. Breathing is difficult, but I use the side of the brick building to push myself to stand.

“I’m calling the police,” she says, showing her phone for reference.

“He’s not fucking worth it,” one of them says in Korean. He goes to help his friend, who is still writhing in pain, stand.

“Fuck,” Daniel, not his real fucking name, says. Then he points a finger at me. “If you ever show your face around here again, I’ll kill you.”

Finally, they take off in the opposite direction as my little warrior.

I don’t give a shit about his threats. I focus on the girl still standing in this dirty alleyway, looking ready for a fight.

She can’t be older than sixteen or seventeen.

She approaches me. “Are you okay?”

I don’t say anything because shame washes over me.

“Here,” she says soothingly as she hands me something. It’s a handkerchief. She tries to use it to wipe the blood away, but I jerk back.

She blinks.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She holds out the handkerchief.

I take it, but then have to use my hand to lean into the brick wall.

“Those guys,” she gestures in the direction they ran, “do you know them? We have to call the police.”

“No!” That one word hurts like a bitch to say.

“Police,” she repeats. “Help.” She blinks at me and then wrinkles her forehead. “Shit, I don’t know the word for police in Korean,” she mumbles, thinking I can’t understand her.

“I-I speak English,” I tell her.

“Police,” she says again. “They can help get those—”

I adamantly shake my head and use the handkerchief to wipe the blood that drips into my eye.

“You need a hospital.” She reaches for me, but I wrench away.

I turn away because I don’t want her to look into my eyes.

I’m no one she should look at.

It’s time for me to go. To limp my way back to the tiny room I’ve managed to rent. Or, better, finish the job I came here to do. End it all.

Her voice breaks through my morbid thoughts, though.

“My dad’s here on business,” she says suddenly. “Well, kind of. We’re on a family trip, and stopping here is half-business, half-family trip.” She laughs.

I inhale at the sound. My lungs burn, but it allows me to take in the faint scent of lavender.

“This doesn’t seem like the kind of neighborhood where robberies happen.” Her gaze sweeps up and down the length of the alleyway.

Though the alleyway is small and dirty, she’s right. This part of the city is full of high-end retailers and businesses.

Yet, I scoff. “Nothing is what it seems,” I mutter.

She turns back to me, her forehead wrinkling.

I look away.

“Hey,” she calls when I start to limp away. “Where are you going? You should at least get to a hospital or a doctor.” She comes up beside me, trying to help, but again, I don’t let her touch me.

“No,” I protest. “No police. No doctor. I’m not worth it.” The words fall from my lips like the truth they are.

“What? Why would you say that? Everyone’s worth it. Every life—”

“Kennedy!” a voice calls.

She gasps and inhales. “That’s my mom. Shit, she must be looking for me.” She turns to yell down the alleyway, “I’m here!”

Using her distraction to get away from her, I push through the pain in my body to stumble my way out of the alley, tripping over garbage bins as I move.

I’m forced to stop and catch my breath once I reach the other side of the building.

Something propels me to peer around the building, though. I spot an older Black woman with two burly men in black suits rushing toward the girl.

“Kennedy, where have you been?” the older woman asks. She looks a lot like the girl.

“I-I was here helping …” She holds her hands toward where I once stood. “Where did he go?”

Her gaze sweeps down the alleyway, and I pull away from the building so she can’t see me.

“He was right here.”

“Who?” the woman asks.

“A boy, he was getting beat up.”

Her mother says something.

“Uncle Brutus, can you help me find him? I think he was hurt,” she asks.

That muscle in the center of my chest, which I once thought had stopped beating, constricts. There’s care in her voice.

For me.

Someone besides my mother is concerned for me for the first time in longer than I can remember.

“Kennedy, we can’t,” her mother says. “Everyone is waiting for us at the restaurant.”

“I … Uncle Brutus, please,” she pleads. “Can you just check to see if you can find him?”

She gives him a description of what I look like.

“I think he needs help.”

A lump forms in my throat. A deep, male voice responds that he’s going to check. Footsteps sound in my direction.

In my haste to hide, I knock over a large garbage bin. It doesn’t deter me as I rush through the small alley behind the building, down a few concrete stairs, and to a main street I know well.

I peer over my shoulder several times but don’t see the burly guy following me.

Even if he saw me, there are plenty of people out on this street with whom I blend in. Pain sears through my body as I walk, and I clutch the right side of my ribs. She was right. I should go to the hospital.

Kennedy.

That’s her name. I stop when the ache in my body becomes too much.

Despite the blood on my face and my disheveled appearance, no one on the street asks if I need help. Numerous curious looks are thrown my way, though.

People don’t care, I think to myself.

Then I peer down at the handkerchief still in my hand. It’s white silk, but now it’s stained with my blood. I look it over and stop when I see something stitched in one of the corners.

Initials.

K.T.

Days later, I find out what the initials stand for.

Kennedy Townsend.

A number of online articles mention Aaron Townsend, CEO of Townsend Industries, who was in Seoul for a few days with his family.

The original article doesn’t mention the name of his wife or children.

Does her father hide his family like my father hid me?

The answer is no, since she carries his last name. I find more articles about him, his family, and, most importantly, her.

An article from their home city of Williamsport mentions Kennedy’s participation in a horseback riding competition. An image shows my little warrior, mounted on a horse, holding a bouquet and a second-place ribbon.

I keep the article and picture of her.

This is the first person who’s cared about me in years.

The only person who isn’t related to me who took the time to check on me.

She gave me a reason to believe in something besides my mortality.

Kennedy Townsend gave me a reason to live.