Olivia's breath caught in her throat. She had totally forgotten, Kafka had been watching the entire thing.
He had seen her catch that man's wrist, seen her fling him through the air like a sack of flour, seen his body slam against the ground.
Worse, he had seen her dislocate his shoulder and snap his ankle without hesitation, and she knew how brutal it must have looked.
She hadn't minded showing that side of herself to the girls, after all, she wanted them to be inspired, to remember that strength could come in many forms, and that standing up against creeps like those two was possible.
But Kafka...Kafka was different. He was her son and also a man, and most men she knew didn't take kindly to women who were too strong, too violent, too uncompromising.
A shiver of regret ran through her.
What if he thought she was monstrous? What if he saw her as dangerous, someone to be wary of rather than to love?
