Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(4)

As I scramble, frantically trying to get away, I see this new man tackle my attacker, bringing his gargantuan frame to the ground, and then I’m free from his grip.

But I can’t run; I can barely move. I only scramble so far, my palms and elbows scraping along the rough pavement, before I collapse onto the street in the fetal position, feeling pain run in sharp rivers all throughout my body.

The men continue to tussle—it’s like two wild beasts in a fight to the death—and then the new guy is throwing heavy, savage punches at my attacker. I hear the breaking of bone, see the spurting of blood, and I close my eyes, wishing I could wake up from this violent nightmare.

Then everything seems to grow quiet.

When a hand touches my shoulder, my eyes fly open, and I let out a high-pitched cry of pure fear.

“Est-ce que ?a va?” the man asks, crouched beside me. “Are you okay?” He switches to English, his accent like velvet.

I shake my head, letting out a whimper as tears rush to my eyes.

“Where does it hurt?” he asks, looking me over. “Can you get up?”

“No,” I whisper. I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to move. I want to lie here, alone, without this stranger by my side, even if he did beat the shit out of the other guy.

Oh shit, what if my attacker is dead? Those punches were ruthless.

I raise my head to look. With the headlights half illuminating the giant of a man, I can see his chest rise and fall. His face is bloody, but he’s stirring slightly. Not dead.

“Did you know that man?” the guy asks me, following my gaze.

“No,” I whisper. “I was just walking to the train. I thought he was following me for a few blocks and—” Shit, my train. I glance at the guy with wide eyes. “I have to catch my train.”

Though I can’t make out his face properly in the shadows, I see him frown. “Train?” he repeats incredulously.

“I have to go,” I tell him, trying to roll over to push myself up, but my backpack holds me down.

The man moves more into the light, blinking at me in disbelief as he grabs my shoulders to keep me still and then slips the straps off me until I’m free of the backpack. “You’re not catching any train,” he says. “You’re going straight to the hospital.”

It takes me a moment to really look at him, and I’m momentarily stunned. Dark mussed-up hair, darker eyes, perfectly groomed facial hair over a wide jaw and dimpled chin. He looks like he could be in his late twenties or early thirties. I must be more fucked-up than I thought, because there’s no way this guy is real. This might be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

It figures this is how I’d meet him.

Somehow I manage to tear my eyes away. Actually, the throbbing pain around my ankle makes it easier. I close my eyes tightly as I wince.

Son of a bitch.

“I can’t go to the hospital,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Why not? You’re hurt. You need to go to the hospital, then to the police station to file charges against this man.” He gestures to the beaten man with disgust before he reaches into the front pocket of his crisp, white shirt that’s now dotted with blood and pulls out his phone. “I’m calling you an ambulance.”

“Please, no,” I say quickly. “Don’t. I’m fine.” I manage to pull away from his grasp, trying to get to my feet.

His frown deepens, creating a sharp line between his low, dark brows. He tucks his phone away. “You’re not fine. Allons-y.”

He comes around behind me and puts his arms under my back, holding me tight as he lifts me to a sitting position. I’m aware of both how useless I feel and how close this stranger is to me. He smells amazing—a faint trace of cologne I can’t place—like he was born in the sea. It brings an image of a calm blue ocean, like the color the water was this morning on my jog.

That’s it, focus on his smell, I tell myself. Don’t think about that ankle. Don’t think about the pain. Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean.

Then he hooks his elbows under my arms and gently hauls me up to my feet. My left ankle screams with pain in protest, and I let out a yelp.

“Don’t put pressure on it, lean on me,” he says, pulling my arm up so it’s over his shoulder. Hell, he has broad shoulders built like a rock, and yet his movements are completely fluid, elegant.

I put my weight on him just as I hear a grunt and a stirring sound from behind us. We both turn to see the attacker staggering to his feet.

“Arrête!” the man yells at him, but the attacker is getting the fuck out of here. Without a glance at us, he starts stumbling down the street.

“Fuck,” Sexy French Guy swears, and I can feel him start to pull away as if he’s about to run after him.

“Go,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

As much as I don’t want him to leave me here all alone, I also don’t want the attacker to get away with what he did.

But he takes one look at me and shakes his head. I see the tension in his jaw, the sharpness in his eyes. “No. I’m not leaving you like this.”

“He’ll get away.”

“No,” he says in a hardened voice. “He won’t.”

I frown. No? The attacker literally just got up and ran. What is he going to have the police do, follow the drops of blood throughout the city?