"What did he say?" Yara screamed, frantic. "He actually called me stupid?"Her voice cracked with disbelief. He hadn't been like this before — he used to hold her like a treasure.
"Nathaniel Fu, come back here!" she cried, desperate.
…
Celia had been dragged into a rundown townhouse on the edge of town. Brother Biao shoved her roughly onto a cold wooden bed. He'd been staring at her since they first saw her; now that he had her alone, he couldn't contain himself.
"Little beauty, come have some fun with us," he sneered as he reached to tear at her clothes.
Celia clutched at her collar. Biao's face darkened and, with a single, brutal slap, he struck her across the cheek. The sound echoed in the small room. A bright welt bloomed on the side of her delicate face.
"Served you right," Biao spat. "You were close to that man, weren't you? He used you and dumped you—don't pretend to be pure now."
The other men crowded in, leering. "Your man abandoned you," one said. "You either play along, or you'll suffer."
Celia had noticed the knives at their belts; these men were dangerous. She had no energy to fight — and she was carrying a child. She didn't resist as they closed in. Her voice stayed unnervingly calm. "Fine. I'll cooperate. But let those others go."
Biao laughed, cruel and delighted. "Why let them go? It's more fun if everyone stays." He signaled to the others. "Keep her."
Hands reached; fingers tore at the cloth at her throat. The men's eyes were hungry, animal. Celia's small face paled, but she didn't panic — not visibly. She kept her head, looking for any opening.
Then, with a thunderous kick, the front door exploded inward. A huge hand seized Brother Biao by the collar and hauled him back. The men froze.
Celia's head snapped up. Nathaniel stood in the doorway, all black — coat, shirt, expression — every inch the storm. He moved with the calm, lethal ease of someone who'd decided a thing and would see it done.
He looked at her once and asked, low and controlled, "Are you all right?"
Celia shook her head, still steady. "I'm fine."
Without hesitation he shrugged off his coat and threw it over her shoulders, sheltering her from the room's filth. The fabric swallowed her small frame and for the moment made her look safe, absurdly cared for. She wanted to vomit at how sick she felt, but she kept control. Now, she couldn't risk striking out and endangering the child.
Biao staggered to recover and spat, "Why are you back? You pick fights with us now?" He barked orders. "Brothers, get him!"
They rushed.
Nathaniel's hand went to his side as if to check an invisible balance; then, like a coiled animal, he struck. He didn't hesitate, didn't yell — he moved. The room became a blur of sound: fists, a chair smashed, a lamp knocked over. Nathaniel's movements were precise and brutal. He disarmed one man with a twist, sent another into a heap against the wall with a single shoulder.
The men fought back, but they were clumsy, drunk on bravado and fear. Nathaniel was all control — a terrifying, efficient force. He knocked one attacker to the floor and pinned him with his knee.
"Get your hands off her," he said, frost in his voice. It was not a question.
Those who could still move backed off, eyes wide. Some stumbled for the door. Brother Biao, bleeding and furious, tried to lunge, but Nathaniel's fist met his jaw — clean, heavy — and Biao crumpled.
When the dust settled, the room was a mess: upturned furniture, shattered glass, a few men groaning on the floor. Nathaniel stood between Celia and the rest of the world like a statue. He looked down at her and for a beat there was something that could have been something softer — concern, maybe even regret.
"Are you hurt?" he asked again, gentler this time.
Celia touched the side of her face — the sting was raw — then forced a small, steadier answer. "A little."
He tightened the coat around her shoulders. "You should have called me."
She swallowed. "I couldn't."
Nathaniel's jaw worked. Wordlessly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, voice cold as winter as he barked a number into it. "Zane, secure the exits. Don't let anyone follow them."
Outside, the muffled sound of running feet and distant shouts told them the night was not yet done. Inside, Celia's hand crept to her belly, feeling the fragile life beneath. Nathaniel followed the motion with his eyes and, for a long second, said nothing.
"Let's get you out of here," he finally said. He helped her up with the same careful force he used to pull people apart. "Can you walk?"
"Yes," she lied at first, then met his eyes and added, "I can."
He supported her as they moved toward the door. The townhouse smelled of smoke and cheap cologne and fear. As they stepped into the night, Celia glanced back at the faces left behind — broken, bleeding, furious — and then at Nathaniel's profile, calm and immovable in the dim streetlight.
She felt, for the first time since she'd arrived in the capital, that she might be able to breathe.