Chapter 1: Ruby - Keeping Knight

“Do you have the fire extinguisher ready?”

As Micah closes the last few feet between us, his gaze meets mine, and his handsome features curve into a smile that does funny things to my stomach. “I was sure you’d have one on hand,” he continues. He glances at the stainless steel counter, well-stocked with an assortment of kitchen utensils but nary a fire extinguisher in sight. “After last week, at least.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” I reply. My lips twitch. “But now that you’re mentioning it, maybe a fire extinguisher would come in handy.”

Micah touches my arm, and a slightly breathless feeling sweeps through me. “Maybe I’ll have better luck this time. Or at least not set the smoke detectors off.”

“Hopefully,” I agree. Flattening my hand against the cool metal of the counter, I lean over to grab the printed recipe I grabbed from the instructor on the way in. Since I already looked at it, I hand it straight to Micah. “What do you think? Can we manage to prepare this one without burning it?”

He takes the paper from my hand. His fingers graze mine, and my heart trips.

Stop it, I scold myself while he scans the recipe. We’re just friends. Well, assuming partnering up for cooking class every week constitutes friendship, which I think it does.

And anyway, I’m happily single. I’m enjoying my uncomplicated, drama-free life. I’m focusing on myself, like my best friend Grace suggested. And dating doesn’t fit into any of that.

“Hmm,” Micah says after he’s scanned the recipe. “The chili seems promising. But the cornbread? I’ll admit, I’m a little concerned about that.”

Then he sets the recipe down and stretches, raising his arms above his head and rolling his neck. His shirt lifts, revealing a strip of bare skin ridged with hard muscle. A dusting of golden-brown hair trails down below his waistband.

I drag my traitorous gaze away from his washboard abs and stare at the recipe sheet with such intensity I’m surprised it doesn’t burst into flames.

Just friends. We’re just friends. And I’m not interested in dating.

But, my libido whines silently, did you see his abs? There have to be at least six of them. Maybe eight? If he took his shirt off, could there even be ten?

Friends don’t count friend’s ab muscles, I counter. And they don’t ogle the other person’s body, either.

At the counter to our right, two women—Elowen and Talia, twenty-something roommates who’ve made no secret that they’re both single, but looking—burst into a flutter of giggles. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice them both staring at Micah’s stomach in open admiration.

Either of them would be thrilled to date Micah, if he asked.

He hasn’t, though. I heard Elowen and Talia bemoaning the fact just before he got here today. “Maybe I should ask him out,” Talia mused. “There’s no rule that women have to wait for the man to do the asking.”

“If he were interested, he’d ask,” Elowen retorted sourly. “And anyway, I practically asked him out, myself. Last week, I caught him coming into class and asked if he’d been to the new bar down the street. It was the perfect opening, but he didn’t take me up on it. Just told me he hadn’t been, and that he’s not really into bars anymore.”

“Not into bars?” Talia asked with a puzzled frown. “I thought all guys liked bars. What’s not to like about them? Booze, women...”

“I don’t know.” Elowen shrugged. “But a man who looks like that? He can take me anywhere he wants.”

It shouldn’t matter to me that Micah hasn’t responded to their advances. Or that he’s apparently not into the bar scene anymore.

It shouldn’t matter, because Micah and I are just friends. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved.

“Well.” Micah lowers his arms, and that tempting bit of skin disappears beneath his shirt. “Chili does sound good. And the cornbread, if I can manage not to ruin it.” His lips quirk as he looks at me. “Are you sure you don’t want a different partner? One with more cooking experience?”

“I don’t want a different partner,” I reply quickly. Ever since Micah and I fell into being partners the first week of our cooking class, seeing him has become one of the high points of my week.

A beat later, insecurity niggles in. “Unless you want a different partner,” I add. “If you’d like to switch things up, I understand.”

His expression shifts to a more serious one. “I’m happy the way things are. I just feel bad that I’m always messing things up⁠—”

“You’re not.” Without thinking, I rest my hand over his. My fingers tingle. My heart stumbles again. “You don’t mess up any more than anyone else.”

“Really?” Micah’s eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t recall the instructor referring to anyone else’s meatballs as deadly weapons. Or setting off the smoke alarm because they forgot to take the biscuits out of the oven.”

I can’t help laughing at the memory of Chef Philip trying to saw his way through one of the meatballs we made last week. It was so tough and dense, even with one of Chef’s fancy knives, he could barely cut through it. “I wouldn’t recommend eating them,” he told us, “but on the bright side, you could make a stockpile to use for ammunition.”

Harsh? Maybe. But true.

“We don’t know that the deadly meatballs were your fault,” I say. “We were working together, remember? Maybe I messed them up.”

“You were in charge of the sauce,” Micah replies. “I was taking point on the meatballs. So it was definitely my fault.”

As he glances at our hands, mine still resting atop ‌his, my cheeks heat.

Crap. Friends don’t hold each other’s hands. Just like they’re not supposed to be wondering just how many ab muscles the other has.

Jerking my hand away, I reach for the cutting board and set it in front of us. After studying the wood grain for a few seconds, I say, “It doesn’t matter whose fault it was.” Lowering my voice, I add in a conspiratorial tone, “And anyway, I’d much rather have rock-hard meatballs than work with Aidan over there.”

Micah steals a quick glance at Aidan, who we’ve privately nicknamed Teacher’s Pet. Aidan is always the one with his hand up first, and he makes sure to arrive before anyone else so he can grab the cook space closest to the instructor. He loves to ask show-offy questions, often referring to the elaborate dishes he prepared on his own at home.

Questions like, “Chef, when I was making beef Wellington over the weekend, I think I got a little tripped up on the duxelle recipe. I used shiitake mushrooms, but the flavor wasn’t quite right. Should I have used cremini instead?”

When Aidan asked that one, the expression on Micah’s face was priceless. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting out laughing. But seriously. This is an intro to cooking class. For beginners. And Aidan is going on about beef Wellington?

“Maybe he should teach the class,” Micah whispered to me. “Since he’s such an expert and all.”

“Maybe,” I agreed just as quietly, “but if he does, I’m quitting.”

I wouldn’t, really. I value the three hours I spend with Micah every week too much. What started out as an impulsive decision—signing up for a cooking class as an excuse to get out of my apartment—has turned into one of my very favorite activities.

“True,” Micah agrees. He nudges me with his shoulder. Then he shoots me a mischievous smile. “Maybe we should make more of those meatballs and toss them at him whenever he asks a ridiculous question.”

I’m struck by the mental image of me and Micah, hunkered down behind the counter, taking turns darting up to fling a meatball at Aidan before ducking down again. Laughing, I say, “That would definitely make cooking class more interesting.”

“Who knows, maybe I’ll screw up the biscuits, too. And we can add them to our stockpile of munitions.”

“You’re not going to screw them up. This week is going to go well. I can tell.”

Micah regards me for a second; his expression unreadable. His gaze darkens with intensity. “I think it’s started out pretty well already.”

My lungs squeeze.

Just friends, I remind myself. Just friends.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I’ve always loved chili. So I’m hoping it’s edible this time.”

“Oh?” Noticing that Chef Philip is heading towards the instructor’s counter at the front of the room, I move the recipe sheet so it’s positioned between me and Micah.

Micah nods. “Yeah.” An affectionate smile curves his lips. “When I was a kid, our chef would make chili whenever I had a cold. She said it was better than chicken soup. But⁠—”

His mouth snaps shut, and twin spots of pink rise on his cheeks.

“Class,” Chef Philip announces. “We’ll be starting the lesson in two minutes. Please make sure you’ve gotten all your ingredients. And if you need to run to the restroom, now’s the time to do it.”

Micah’s gaze skims across the counter. “Did you get everything already?”

Nodding, I reply, “I did. Since I got here early, I thought I might as well.”

“I meant to get here earlier myself,” he says. “But my last meeting of the day ran a little late. Then I kept hitting delays on my way over here.”

I shake my head in rueful agreement. “Tell me about it. I must have hit every intersection wrong. And then one of the streets I usually take to get here was closed for an accident. So I had to detour around.”

“It’s always something, isn’t it?” Micah grabs a green pepper from the pile of ingredients and rinses it in the sink. Then he pats it dry with a paper towel and sets it on the cutting board. “I’ve had to take an alternate route to work all week because there’s a movie shoot going on one block down from mine.”

“Ooh, what kind of movie?” I’ve lived in Manhattan for close to ten years, and I still get a little thrill whenever I spot a movie or television show being filmed. Plenty of New Yorkers don’t blink an eye at the sight of a famous actor shooting a scene right out on the street, but it still hasn’t gotten old to me.

He thinks for a second. “Not action. Maybe a romance? But it seemed sad. He was running after her, shouting her name and crying.”

“Hmm. I’m more the rom-com type myself,” I reply. “I’ll take a pass on the running and shouting and crying.”

“Same.” After a beat, he smiles. “Well. I could take a pass on the romance entirely. I’m more into action and fantasy.”

“I like fantasy,” I tell him. “I used to watch it with my dad. Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal were his favorites.”

Micah nods in approval. “You can’t go wrong with those.”

I’m just about to ask him about his favorite fantasy movie—I’m guessing Lord of the Rings—when Chef Philip claps his hands loudly. “Alright. Let’s get started.”

Tucking away the question for later, I fix my attention on our instructor. Even though I’d honestly rather keep talking to Micah than listen to Chef, the work ethic my parents instilled in me is impossible to ignore. Class is for learning, my dad always told me. Not for socializing. Save that for later. When you’re in class, you should give all your attention to your teacher.

Given that my dad was a neurosurgeon and my mom a dentist, it wasn’t surprising the value they placed on education. Most of the time, I didn’t mind. I liked school. I wanted to get good grades. And as a natural introvert, it was kind of a relief to have an excuse not to talk to my classmates.

“Are you ready?” Micah whispers. “No weapons or fires this time.”

I flash him a quick smile. “Just edible food. So you can take some chili home to enjoy.”

* * *

“That went a lot better than I expected.”

Micah looks over at me with a pleased smile. “I really thought the cornbread would get me this time,” he continues. “But I think it actually came out pretty well.”

“It did,” I agree. “Really well. Even Chef Philip said so.”

“He did, didn’t he?” Micah’s smile expands. “The best cornbread of anyone’s. Did you see Teacher’s Pet when Chef said that?”

“I did. And he didn’t look happy.”

“Nope.” Micah bumps my arm with his. “He sure didn’t.” He pauses. “Is it weird that I’m so invested in this? I mean, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a cooking class. Not like we’re getting paid or trying to get a promotion.”

“It’s the principle of it,” I reply. “I don’t really care about being better than anyone else. But when someone gets all braggy…” I shake my head. “Maybe it’s just me being stubborn. But I was the same way back in school. As soon as some know-it-all started acting like they were the smartest one in the class, it motivated me to study even harder.”

“So you were the teacher’s pet?” he teases.

“Oh, no. I didn’t talk in class unless I had to. And I never bragged about my grades. It was more just… proving to myself that I could do it.”

We go quiet for a moment as we push through the double doors that lead to the sidewalk. A sharp blast of cold hits me, and I shiver. It’s not unseasonably cold for a night in early October—maybe fifty degrees or so—but after spending the last two and a half hours in a commercial kitchen, the change in temperature is jarring.

I try to wedge my to-go container under one arm so I can zip up my jacket, but I’ve only made one unsuccessful swipe at the zipper before Micah takes the container and stacks it on top of his. “I’ll carry it,” he says. “Sorry. I should have offered when we were leaving the kitchen.”

“It’s fine.” With both hands free, I make quick work of the zipper. “It’s not like the container is heavy. I’m perfectly capable of carrying it myself.”

“Still.” Micah’s expression is stubbornly set. “It’s good manners.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I reply with a chuckle. “You’re far more polite than most guys I’ve known.”

It’s the truth. I might not know Micah well, but I’ve seen enough to know how well-mannered he is. He always holds the door for a woman, even if she’s a good twenty feet away. If he’s waiting for something and a woman gets in line behind him, he’ll offer to swap places with her. He walks me home from cooking class every week, even though I told him it wasn’t necessary, and he makes sure to walk on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me from traffic.

When I was with my ex, Liam, I was lucky if he ever held the door for me. “I’d think you’d want to open the door yourself,” Liam retorted when I asked him about it. “Being an independent woman and all. Why would you need me to open the door for you?”

In hindsight, I should have taken that as a sign we weren’t meant for each other. Because I like ‌chivalrous gestures. They remind me of my dad. And just because I can open a door for myself doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate when someone else does it for me.

Displeasure moves across Micah’s face, but as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again.

Looking for romance novels?

Head to Lokepub for your next read.

Annoyance that I mentioned his manners, I wonder? Is he unhappy that I haven’t known many men who’ve been as polite as him? Or is it just a reaction to the cold, and I’m reading far more into his expression than I should be?

“Well,” Micah says. “It’s just what my dad taught me. My grandfather, too.” He takes a quick sidestep so he’s on my right, closer to the street. “Opening doors, standing when a woman comes into the room… It’s not meant to undermine what women are capable of. It’s just a way of showing respect. And doing what you can to protect them.”

“I think it’s nice. My dad was the same way.” We come to the intersection of 55th and 8th and stop while we wait for the light to change. “My dad insisted on opening the car door to help my mom out of the car. Every time. It didn’t matter how long the trip was. She could do it herself, of course. But he liked doing it for her.”

Except when she was so sick at the end, she didn’t have the strength to push the door open. And my dad had to basically carry her from the car to the house, cracking little jokes about whisking her off her feet to make her feel better about it.

My throat goes tight. Twenty years later, and there are still times when her loss feels just as fresh as if it happened yesterday. And remembering how great my dad was with her, how he never acted like taking care of her was an imposition…

That’s the kind of love I want. Except without the tragic ending part of it.

“You okay, Ruby?” Micah asks. When I jerk my gaze back to his, there’s obvious concern in his eyes. Then I glance at the traffic light to see the walk signal clearly illuminated. Everyone else is hurrying across the street, while Micah and I are still standing at the edge of the sidewalk.

“Oh, yes.” I dart onto the crosswalk, moving at a quick clip to cross the street before the light turns. “I’m good.”

Once we reach the other side, I flash Micah a reassuring smile. “Just woolgathering, was all. Everything’s fine.”

He studies me for a second. “Okay.” As we continue along the sidewalk, he adds, “So, how’s work been going? I didn’t get to ask during class. Read any interesting manuscripts lately?”

Micah knows I’m an editor—line editing and proofreading, mainly, although I’ll do fact-checking on special request—and he’ll often ask about the manuscripts I read for my clients. I don’t tell him the details, since that’s protected by an NDA, but I don’t see the harm in sharing some of the general ideas.

“I’m copy-editing a memoir right now,” I tell him, “and it’s really interesting. The author worked for a carnival for twenty years. One of those traveling ones. She was in charge of finding talent, whether it was an acrobat or a contortionist or a set of conjoined twins.”

“Really? They still have those?”

“Well, she quit about ten years ago. So I’m not sure if carnivals are the same now. But they had a special exhibition for all the… wonders, they’d call them. Some of the wonders were real. Others were well-constructed fakes, with prosthetics and stuff.”

Micah nods thoughtfully. “That sounds like a really interesting book to read.”

“It is so far,” I agree. “When it’s published, I’ll get you a copy.”

Well, assuming we’re still friends by then. In another year, when the book finally comes out, it’s highly unlikely we’ll still be taking cooking classes and spending three hours every Tuesday night together. Although we could still keep in touch. Meet up for coffee once in a while.

Unless he’s dating someone, that is. I doubt his girlfriend would much appreciate Micah heading off to spend time with another woman.

Something cold and unpleasant settles in my stomach.

I’m not trying to date Micah. But I don’t like thinking about him being with another woman either. Is it rational? No. But it’s there just the same.

“That would be great,” Micah says, mercifully oblivious to my private thoughts. “I’d really like to read it.”

“Okay.” I smile at him. “I’ll see if I can get the author to sign it for you.”

A man comes up along the sidewalk from behind us, singing at the top of his lungs. Actually, singing might be too generous. To be more accurate, it might be considered screaming.

Before I can even react, Micah wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer to him.

As our bodies touch, heat blasts through my body. My breath catches.

Once the singing slash shouting man passes us, Micah releases me, leaving me even colder than before. “Sorry,” he says as he flashes me a small, apologetic smile. “I just didn’t want him to bump into you.”

“It’s fine,” I reply. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, given who Micah is. Twelve years' active duty in the Army, and now head of the Canine Services Division at Fox & Falcon Securities, a highly respected private security firm in Manhattan, he’s spent the better part of two decades protecting people.

“Of course.” Micah lifts his chin. “Always.”

During the rest of our walk to my apartment, located in a pre-war building on the Upper East Side, we continue our conversation, shifting from the topic of my work to his. I love hearing about Micah’s job. It’s just so interesting, how he trains the dogs for different specialities, from tracking to explosive detection to personal security. When we’re not walking on a crowded sidewalk, he’ll even show me photos of the dogs he works with—there’s Burke, who specializes in suspect apprehension and handler protection, Fluff, who’s trained as a tracker, and Cooper, who can detect drugs and explosives in a couple of sniffs. Oh, and there’s Micah’s own dog, Sampson, who’s also trained in personal security.

Tonight, Micah tells me about a new dog they’ve just started working with, Daisy. She’s only six months old, so she’s too young for ‌specialized training. Right now, they’re just working with her doing basic obedience. Micah has me laughing at Daisy’s hijinks, like sneaking into the Fox & Falcon cafeteria and stealing a plate of cookies that the owner, Nico, had bought for a meeting that afternoon.

“By the time we tracked Daisy down, she had licked the frosting off half the cookies,” Micah recalls. “Blue frosting. So her entire snout was blue. We brought her to the vet, of course, to make sure she hadn’t eaten anything she shouldn’t. Fortunately, she was fine. But the blue still hasn’t completely faded.”

As he tells me about the dogs, there’s a tiny part of me that wishes Micah and I were dating, so I’d have a reason to meet them. If we were actually dating, I bet he’d bring me to Fox & Falcon sometimes. I could play with the dogs. Watch how they’re trained.

And that’s the only appeal of dating Micah? a knowing voice in the back of my head whispers. Really? Just the dogs? Not his broad shoulders and well-muscled arms and the abs that might be an eight-pack, or possibly ten? Not his bright blue eyes and enigmatic smile? Not the way he treats you, which is ten times nicer than Liam ever did?

Shut up, I retort silently. Who asked you, anyway? And so what if I admired his abs? It’s not like I’m going to do anything about it.

By the time we reach the entrance to my apartment building, it’s almost nine o’clock. Feeling a little bad that Micah still has to get back to his place in Midtown; after I thank him for walking with me, I offer a weak, “You know, you don’t have to walk me home after class. I really appreciate it, but it’s out of your way. And now you have to go back⁠—”

“I don’t mind,” he interrupts. “And it’s not out of my way.”

I punch in the access code for the building before replying, “Of course it’s out of your way. Our class is in Midtown. Then you walked with me all the way to the Upper East Side. And now you have to turn around and go back to basically where we started.”

Micah waits for me to open the door and follows me inside. “Not quite. My apartment is on Lexington. The class is over on 6th.”

“Close enough.” I hold his gaze. “I appreciate it. I really do. I just feel bad. By the time you get home, it’ll be nine-thirty, and you said you’re usually up by five...”

“Ruby.” His features sober. “I don’t mind. First off, I like walking. It’s good exercise. And I enjoy walking with you.”

Before I can respond, he adds, “Plus, I don’t like the idea of you walking home alone at night. I don’t care that it’s the city, and thousands of women do it. You’re not thousands of women. You’re my friend, and I want to make sure you’re safe.”

Oh.

Any other arguments I had deflate.

And really, I do feel safer when Micah walks me home. I just feel bad, like I’m taking advantage of him. But if he’s insisting…

“Okay,” I concede. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated. If you have plans, or you’re just not feeling up to it…”

“That reminds me,” he says, “it’s getting dark so early now, I was thinking I could pick you up as well. What time do you usually leave for class?”

“Micah, you don’t need to do that. There are plenty of people on the street at that time. Nothing’s going to happen⁠—”

“You don’t know that.” His eyes turn a deep, stormy blue. “A friend of mine was attacked right on the street. Not at midnight, or three in the morning, but evening. When there were plenty of people around. It can happen anytime, Ruby. Anywhere.”

A small shudder grips me. “Oh.”

“I’m not trying to scare you,” Micah continues. “But it’s not a big deal coming to get you. And I’d feel better, knowing you’re safe.” His lips tug into a half-smile. “So, really, you’d be helping me out by saying yes.”

I could argue with him. Insist that I’ve been walking in New York City for ten years and I’ve been just fine. But what would be the point? I’d just make things weird between us and come off as ungrateful.

So instead, I just nod. “Okay.”

“Good.” His smile brightens, and he gives my upper arm a little squeeze. “So I’ll be here next Tuesday at”—he raises his brows at me—“five-twenty? Five-thirty?”

“Five-twenty. I like to get there a little early. If that’s okay.”

Micah holds my gaze. “Five-twenty is perfect.” He stops to think. “You still have my number, right? In case you need to change the time? Or cancel?”

“I do.” We exchanged numbers a few weeks ago, although neither of us has texted or called each other since then.

“Great.” He gives my arm another little squeeze. “Alright. I’d better get home. Sampson will want to go out for his nighttime walk. You okay going up to your apartment by yourself?”

“Of course.” It’s not a doorman building, but it’s got plenty of security. And my neighbors are really good about not letting anyone inside who doesn’t belong here. “Have a good night. And thanks again for walking me home.”

After I’ve said goodbye to Micah and checked my mail, I head up the stairs to my fourth-floor apartment. We have an elevator, but it’s finicky at best, and I’d rather not spend the next hour trapped inside while I wait for the mechanic to fix it.

As I hurry up the stairs, I have a fleeting thought of wishing I’d asked Micah to come up with me. Not necessarily to come inside, but just to walk me up there. I don’t really think anyone is lurking in the stairwell, waiting to attack me, but his story about his friend was a little unsettling.

But I make it to the fourth-floor without incident, albeit a little out of breath from rushing up the stairs faster than I usually do. Once I’m in the well-lit hallway, I let out a little sigh of relief.

At my door, I unlock the doorknob and deadbolt before letting myself in. The lights are all off, which isn’t unusual, since I often forget to leave a light on when I leave.

I should get one of those smart plugs, I think. Set a timer so the living room light always comes on at sundown. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving the light on at all.

The first niggle of fear comes when I flick the light switch and nothing comes on.

Frowning, I hit the switch a few more times. Nothing.

But the bulb could have blown. When’s the last time I changed it, after all? I can’t even remember. So it’s not a surprise that it’s blown.

Some light filters through the blind on the living room window; not a lot, since they’re meant to block most of the light, but enough for me to make my way across the room to the lamp beside the couch.

Except the lamp beside the couch doesn’t work, either.

The fear isn’t a niggle anymore. It’s right there, fully-grown.

My pulse jumps. Cold prickles race across my body. A terrible dread closes in, cold and suffocating.

But it’s nothing. Just a fluke. Lights stop working all the time. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.

Besides, my door was locked. If someone had broken in, I’d know.

With that reassurance in mind, I square my shoulders and reach into my purse for my phone. Once I retrieve it, I press the button to turn on the flashlight and hold it up to brighten the room.

At first, everything looks normal.

Then something moves. Something big.

A second later, a heavy weight crashes into me, knocking me to the ground. All the air in my lungs whooshes out, leaving me gasping.

My phone is wrenched out of my hand and flung across the room.

Even as everything is still registering, a large body climbs on top of me, pinning me down.

Terror like nothing I’ve felt surges through me.

I try to scream, but all that comes out is a breathless wheeze.

A hand comes over my mouth; hot and damp and smelling of sweat. The man—I think it’s a man, given his size—digs his fingers into my cheek and jaw in a punishing grip.

As realization hits, I start fighting. Wriggling. Bucking. Kicking. But the man is too big. Too heavy. I can’t get him to budge.

Panic claws inside my chest.

My heart feels like it’s about to explode.

No! a terrified voice cries silently. No! This can’t be happening. Not here.

But it is.

Someone’s inside my apartment. On top of me. Suffocating me.

Do something! the voice begs. Anything!

So I keep fighting. Struggling. Even though nothing I do seems to work.

My head is getting fuzzy from lack of oxygen, and bright spots edge into my vision. I look up into the face of my attacker, but all I see is a dark mask, covering everything.

He chuckles; a dark, oily sound.

Anger pierces my terror.

How dare he laugh? How dare he?

Then a spark of an idea hits, and I bite into his palm as hard as I can.

Coppery blood fills my mouth.

He yelps and pulls his hand away.

And with the little air I have left, I scream.