The air in my father’s private jet was tense and stifling.

“Evangeline.” Father’s voice was stern and stentorian and stiff with anger. “I just received word of your marks at Yale from this past semester. You still aren’t applying yourself as you should be. At least not in the classes that matter.”

“Well, you see, that’s what’s funny, Father. Your notion of which classes really matter differs from mine, as you may recall from our previous conversations on this topic.” I stifled a tired sigh. “You’re lucky I’m attending those ridiculous, wretched classes at all.”

“I’m lucky?” His thick, manicured, salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “You have things rather backward, I’m afraid.”

We were in the midst of yet another maddeningly polite argument about everything we always argued about: my life, my choices for my career and my future, and the fact that Thomas Haverton was not the man for me.

“I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in politics or business, Father. This isn’t new.”

“Politics and business are your birthright and your inheritance, Evangeline. You cannot simply ignore the path life has set out for you.”

I couldn’t keep back the groan this time. “Life hasn’t set out that path for me, Father, you have. And I’m not interested.” I waved my French-manicured fingernails behind us, where Thomas Haverton—my father’s protégé and the subject of much hopeful matchmaking—was fielding a conference call. “He is interested enough in the business for the both of us. You want someone to take over your place as CEO and president of du Maurier Enterprises? Give it to him. I don’t want it.”

“That’s the plan already, my dear,” Father said. “But I want the business to remain in the family. Which is why I really think you need give the man a fair shake.”

I bit my lip to keep from cursing at my father. “This is even older news than my apathy about business and politics. Thomas is a fine businessman and a worthy successor to your chair as the head of the board. But I have less than no interest in him romantically. I do not feel about him like that now, I haven’t for many years, and I will never have those feelings going forward. Not ever.”

Father had his chair swiveled to face me across the aisle. We were on board Father’s private jet which, despite its massive size only boasted a total of six chairs, although each chair was a high-tech work of leather-wrapped luxury, featuring full massage capabilities, 360-degree swivel, a footrest, cup holders, AC, and USB ports, and could fully recline to become a bed. I was on the other side of the aisle, facing forward, perpendicular to my father, using body language to create a sense of disinterest in the topic.

“Evangeline, come now. He’s a wonderful man. Smart, driven, successful, wealthy in his own right, and within ten years of your own age, not to mention his impeccable breeding and pedigree—”

“Yes, Father, he’s a prize stallion, I’m sure.” I rolled my eyes. “Good for you. If he’s so wonderful, you marry him.”

“You have been destined to marry Thomas Haverton since birth, Evangeline. It is fated. There can be no better match for my daughter.”

The argument had the same effect it always did…none whatsoever, although I do admit I was being worn down, exhausted by their persistent efforts.

I’d broken up with Thomas Haverton at least three times, and yet any time I was home for a break or a weekend, anytime I had lunch with Father or Mother, Thomas showed up, and I got sucked back into his orbit. He showed up for our family vacations, showed up at birthday parties and business functions. I couldn’t escape him, couldn’t avoid him.

His long, sleek black Mercedes would show up outside my dorm at Yale and Raymond, his driver, would be behind the wheel, Thomas in back with his tablet and laptop and phone and slim leather briefcase, working as always. He and Father worked together and were so much alike it was scary. He should have been born into my family rather than me.

When Thomas showed up, he wouldn’t go away unless I came outside. He’d have Raymond follow me at a slow crawl, and he would carry on a conversation with me regardless, and everyone would stare and whisper and point, and so I would get in just to stop the scene.

Invariably we’d end up at a private table at some exclusive restaurant in the city, and he would order a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine and then things went the way they always went. We’d get to the part where I was supposed to invite him up to my room, and I wouldn’t, because I didn’t want Thomas in my private space.

I’d slept with him a once or twice, years past. He’d been my first date, my first kiss; we’d gone from first base to second to third in gradual phases, and then I’d given him my virginity in his suite of rooms at the top of his parents’ exclusive high rise in Manhattan after senior prom.

I’d cried, and he hadn’t understood, and then he’d gotten drunk on champagne and I’d ended up calling Teddy, Father’s driver, to come get me at three in the morning, my dress rumpled and ruined, my hair a wreck, my makeup a disaster, tracks of dried mascara on my cheeks. I’d had to explain to Teddy that Thomas hadn’t hurt me, at least not like that.

That was more than three years ago now, and since then I avoided Thomas as much as possible. He just wasn’t the man for me. As far as I was concerned, I had clearly broken up with him, but yet he persisted. He continued to propose with four-carat diamond rings and elaborate showpieces worthy of The Bachelor.

Why would he continue after being refused three times? The answer was simple but hard to understand—it was because Father had promised him that I would marry him. It just might take some time for me to accept.

Father was stewing, now. Clenching his jaw, sighing prodigiously, and eying me furiously. “Evangeline. This is maddening.”

I laughed. “On this, Father, we happen to agree.”

“So why must you insist on being so difficult?”

I stared at my father in irritated befuddlement. “You mean, why must I insist on, oh, I don’t know, having my own personality? My own dreams and desires and plans that don’t necessarily line up with your vision for my life?”

“Precisely,” Father muttered, without a trace of any irony whatsoever.

“You are unbelievable.”

“The feeling is mutual,” I snapped.

A moment of silence, and then another sigh from Father. “I just want the best for you.”

“I know you do. But the best for me is the freedom to choose my own path in life.”

“There are certain expectations that have been thrust upon your shoulders, simply due to the family into which you were born, Evangeline. You cannot ignore the duty you owe your family.”

“Why do you think I’m even attending those stupid classes you’ve forced me into, Father?”

“You’re barely passing. That hardly counts.”

“A C-average isn’t exactly barely passing.”

“You’re a member of MENSA, Evangeline.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps that may be important to you, but it isn’t to me.”

“No child of mine should be seen to be maintaining anything less than their very best, and you are capable of far more than a C.”

“I’m not in high school, Father. My grades are my business, not yours.”

Father rumbled a sound of displeasure. “I’m paying for the classes, so it is my business, I rather think.”

“Then I’ll quit school entirely. Will that make you happier?”

Father shoved up out of his chair, anger in every line of his body. “You are simply impossible, Evangeline du Maurier.”

I didn’t reply, because there was no point: what I wanted didn’t matter. I was simply expected to be the compliant daughter who accepted Father’s plans for me, to accede to his wishes, to do as he instructed; Father knew best.

He was Lawrence du Maurier, owner, founder, president, and CEO of du Maurier Enterprises, a global complex of corporations and LLCs spanning industries from technology and communications, to medical research and arms development. He was also a former three-term senator, a man with connections to the highest levels of government, and the ears of lobbyists, lawmakers, and Congressional committees. He was an immensely powerful man, one who was accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted—because he always did, no matter what he had to do.

Halfway through my sophomore year at Yale, I’d changed my major from poli-sci to art. I’d dumped the politics classes, blew off the cushy internship Father had set up for my summer at a prestigious Boston firm, and had enrolled in painting classes, art history, and anatomy courses in the fall semester.

Father had been furious, of course. We’d quarreled. He’d cursed at me, I’d cursed back, he’d cursed louder, and I’d stormed off and spent my summer in art classes at the community college near our estate in Connecticut. Then, when I returned to school for the fall semester and visited the office to get my schedule, I discovered that Father had switched everything back to poli-sci. He’d even rearranged my schedule so I could intern at the Boston firm Thursday, Friday, and the weekend, the rest of my classes being crammed between Monday and Wednesday.

No amount of finagling from me had persuaded the enrollment office to change my schedule back, since Father was one of the biggest donors the university had. He always got what he wanted, and what he wanted was for me, his daughter, his only child, to major in political science.

He did not care that I hated politics, did not care that I loved art and that I was a talented sketch artist and oil painter. He was unmoved by the fact that the portfolio of art I’d put together on my own over the years had been good enough that the head of Yale’s art department had arranged a private study program for me…up to that point I’d been self-taught.

Now it was my senior year, and I was technically majoring in poli-sci. But I was only barely scraping by in those classes, and I’d convinced the art department head to let me continue with the private study program, making me a double major. It had been my best political moment, honestly, when I’d outmaneuvered my father.

I gave him what he wanted, sort of, and more importantly, I got what I wanted. The win was that I half-assed the poli-sci classes, blowing them off as much as I dared in favor of time in the studio, painting. I passed the classes, maintained a C-average, but I was primarily focused on my art. And there wasn’t a single thing Father could do, because I was giving him the poli-sci major, but he couldn’t make me love it, couldn’t make me want it, couldn’t make me study harder, or attend class when I didn’t want to.

It became obvious that my poli-sci skills were not what the Boston firm wanted and they quietly suggested to my father that I “take a break.” Which was another win in my column, as far as I was concerned, since it freed up a large block of my time.

Then there was this vacation to Mallorca. It was a big deal, a yearly trip our two families had been making together for twenty-five years, alternating stays at our estate and the Havertons’. I knew that this year’s trip would mean that Thomas would renew his efforts to convince me to marry him, and I would have no part of it.

After Father stormed away from our perennial argument, I returned to scrolling idly through my social media feeds, passing the time in stony silence as the jet traversed from Connecticut to Los Angeles, where Mother would meet us—she had been hosting a big fundraiser in San Francisco, and the Havertons’ had been visiting a family friend on the West coast. Father arranged that we would fly out to LA, overnight there, refuel and restock the G6, then Richard and Elaine Haverton and Mother would join us, and we would all make the transatlantic flight together.

Mother and Father and the Havertons would visit and eat dinner and watch movies and drink way too much, and Thomas would make thinly veiled insinuations and drink champagne and try to get his hands under my skirt.

I had other plans, of course, but had no intention of sharing them with anyone. I just had to bide my time and wait for the best moment to make a break for it. I knew Father wasn’t above essentially kidnapping me, if he had to. He would have Lance, Freddy, and Hassan firmly but gently prevent me from getting away. Which meant I had to be sneaky. I would need a distraction, if possible. It would mean making my escape without my luggage, since I couldn’t see any way of retrieving it once it had been removed from the cargo hold.

I had my carry-on, of course, in which I had a full change of clothes and a pair black flats, but one outfit wasn’t anywhere near enough. I had my credit cards, and the debit card, which drew off my personal account.

Years ago, I’d foreseen Father would try to manipulate me via money, so I’d forged his signature on some key documents, which had allowed me to transfer the sizable monthly cash allowance Father provided me with from the account he controlled to a private, secret one I controlled. I never transferred all the allowance, obviously, in case he ever looked at my spending habits. I’d learned to live fairly frugally, considering the fact that my allowance was six figures a year.

The frugal—for me—lifestyle meant I’d saved up a nice nest egg of money in an account Father knew nothing about, and couldn’t touch even if he did, since it was at a totally different offshore bank in my name alone. It meant tiresome wire transfers every month, which meant secret visits to Father’s bank, but it was all worth it.

The point was I could buy my own clothing, and anything else, when I got away from Father and Thomas.

The G6 was now making its final approach to LAX, and once we’d taxied to the private hangar, there would a limo waiting to take us to the condo in LA where we’d stay the night and wait for Mother and the Havertons to arrive.

I collected my things once I felt the wheels touch down, unbuckling, and trying to figure out how I would get away. I’d just have to play it by ear, I decided.

Fifteen minutes of taxiing, and then the jet halted, and I heard the bump of the stairs and the hissing of the cabin depressurizing as the door opened. From my window I could see the limo with the temporary driver, and the airport staff unloading our baggage into the trunk of the G-Wagen, which would transport it all to the condo and back again tomorrow. Not only did one not carry one’s own luggage, one didn’t even travel in the same vehicle as one’s luggage.

Ridiculous.

I’d grown up with it, but it was still ridiculous. On my own at Yale, I cooked my own food, carried my own books, walked to class, studied in sweatpants, painted in ratty thirdhand clothes purchased from a resale shop. I did my best to make sure people didn’t even suspect the kind of money and political clout I came from. Other students in the poli-sci program would absolutely murder to have the advantages being my father’s daughter came with, but I had absolutely ZERO interest in a political career.

Thomas tried to take my carry-on from me. “Let me carry that, Evangeline.”

I kept it out of his grip. “It’s fine, Thomas, I can manage, thank you.”

He took it from me anyway. “I’m attempting to be a gentleman. The least you could do is let me be nice.”

“I appreciate the gesture,” I said, “but it’s not necessary. May I have my bag back, please?”

Thomas ignored me, keeping hold of my bag, tucking an arm around my waist with unwelcome familiarity. “I have reservations for us tonight at Abrakadabra Vinoteca. You brought some eveningwear, I assume?”

Typical Thomas, making assumptions. I reached over, snatched my bag from him, and put a foot of space between us as we walked across the tarmac to the waiting limo.

“Actually, Thomas, I have other plans.”

“Oh.” He frowned, dug out his phone and consulted his calendar. “I can move it to Saturday. We’ve dined there on numerous occasion, so I’m certain they’ll accommodate us.”

“You’re forgetting that we are leaving tomorrow for Europe.” I paused for effect. “You must know by now that I’m busy every day. Forever.”

Thomas stopped, eyeing me in irritation. “Now really, Evangeline. Don’t be ridiculous.” He moved toward me. “You’re dining with me. It’s tradition.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Is that a command, Thomas?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “If you like.”

I snorted. “How well has issuing commands worked for my father, Thomas?”

He struggled to remain calm. “It’s dinner, Evangeline. Why be difficult about it?”

“Thomas.” I stood nose to nose with him, staring him down. “I do not wish to spend time with you. You can issue all the commands you wish, but I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“We’ll see about that,” he huffed, and stalked angrily toward the limo.

“Yes, we shall,” I said, more to myself, since he was now out of earshot.

If it weren’t so enraging, the sense of entitlement Thomas felt toward me would have been comical. He thought if I didn’t do what he wanted, he could just beseech my father, who would then force me to do what Thomas wanted.

The joke was on them, however; I wasn’t about to be forced into anything, let alone a ridiculous vacation I wanted no part of, or dinners with Thomas Haverton, or days on end at a stifling, overly lavish estate sipping tea and munching on finger sandwiches and making banal small talk with people I didn’t like.

I waited until Thomas and then Father were in the limo and then slid in and took a spot far from both of them, pretending to be absorbed in my phone, although all I was really doing was scrolling through my Instagram, looking at posts I’d already looked at a dozen times. Father and Thomas were discussing some client account, since Thomas worked directly under Father, was his protégé, and the son he’d always wished he had. Thus the pressure to marry Thomas—because once that happened he would truly be family and take over when Father decided to retire.

The limo took us to the condo, a forty-five-minute drive. Thomas and Father got out, and I followed them, and then stopped at the front doors of the condo building. “Oh, I’ve forgotten my phone in the limo,” I said. “You guys go on in, I’ll be right up.”

Father frowned at me, as it was inconceivable that he’d ever forget his phone, since it was all but surgically attached to his hand. “Teddy, stay with her, please.”

Make sure she doesn’t escape, is what he meant.

I got back in the limo, retrieved the phone I had intentionally left behind. The driver had lowered the partition so he could lounge in the front seat. I slid across the seats to sit directly beneath the partition.

“Can you please take me somewhere?” I asked.

The driver, a middle-aged black man I’d never met before, eyed me suspiciously. “Ma’am?”

“I have a few errands to run. Can you take me, please?”

“I’m supposed to wait here, in case your father or Mr. Haverton need to go somewhere.”

“They’ve got a meeting right now that will keep them busy for at least an hour and I won’t need more time than that. Besides, where would they need to go?”

He shrugged. “Not my place to know.”

I glanced at Teddy, who was standing by the door, waiting for me. I had a few more seconds before he’d come over to the limo to get me. I turned back to the driver. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Shawn, ma’am.”

“Shawn. Please. I’ve been stuck on a plane with them for hours. I just need to get some air. Please. An hour or less. Please?”

“I won’t get in any trouble?”

“I’ll tell them it was my idea.”

“One hour.”

I grabbed his arm and squeezed. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, Shawn! You have no idea what you’re doing for me.”

He turned around and put the car into gear. “Better not be nothin’ illegal.” He glanced back. “Close that door.”

I slid across the seats again, met Teddy’s eyes as I closed the door, and hit the lock button. Shawn pulled out into traffic, and I watched Teddy trotting after us, hands in his hair, realizing what I’d done. He was going to get it for sure, but he’d worked for Father for thirty years, and wasn’t likely to be fired over this, since Father knew it was me being rebellious, not him being slack about his job.

I liked Teddy, but I needed my freedom.

Shawn drove away from the condo into downtown LA, and I realized that if I stayed in the city, Father and Thomas would find me. He had the power and the resources, and LA was a city he knew as well as he did DC and New York. He could have city detectives sniffing me out within hours. There was no doubt about that.

I had to get away, somewhere far. Remote. Unlikely.

“Shawn?” I asked.

He lowered the partition again. “Ma’am?”

“Can you take me to LAX, please?”

“Uh, I don’t know if I can do that.”

Cabs passed by, swerved around us, some stood parked on the curb. “Pull over, then.”

“Ma’am?”

“If you won’t take me, I’ll take a cab.”

He sighed, a low, discreet sound of irritation. “That ain’t safe. Those bozos can’t drive for shit.” He sighed again. “Fine, but I’m gonna get fired for this for sure.”

“I’ll make sure Father knows it was all me, that you were just doing what I asked.”

“Where you gonna go?”

I stared out the window as he made the necessary adjustments to get us on course for LAX. “I don’t know. Somewhere far, far, far from here.”

A few minutes of silence. “I went on a cruise once, with my wife and kids,” Shawn said, apropos of nothing. “One of them Alaskan cruises. It stopped in this really great little place called Ketchikan. Quaint place, really beautiful. Has a deep harbor, so the big old ships can dock there, but it’s a pretty remote spot.”

“Are there flights there from LAX?”

“Not direct I don’t think, but you can get there with a connection or two.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Like I said, it was a nice spot.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “It ain’t fancy, though.”

I laughed. “That’s perfect, actually. I’m discovering I like things rather more simple than my father does.”

“Ketchikan’s your spot, then.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Shawn.”

My phone rang, and I silenced it. It rang again, and again, and again, and I ignored them all. Then text messages started pouring in from Father and Thomas.

Where are you?

Where did you go?

This is unacceptable, Evangeline Du Maurier!! That was from Father, of course. He’d used my full name, which was meant to indicate how mad he was, adding the two exclamation points for emphasis.

I shut off my phone.

I heard another phone ring, a standard imitation old school ringer; Shawn picked it up, and I reached through the divider to catch at his arm. “If it’s my father don’t tell him anything, Shawn. Please.”

He eyed me in the mirror and then shut the phone off. “Who you running from, ma’am?”

“My father. And Thomas.”

“Thomas?”

I sighed. “It’s complicated.” I waved a hand. “It’s not, actually. My father wants me to marry him, and I despise him. Neither of them know the meaning of the word no. I’m not running away forever, I just…I need space. I need freedom. They suffocate me.”

Shawn nodded. “You’re not in trouble, though?”

I shook my head. “Nothing like that. They just want things from me that I don’t want for myself, and they have no intention of ever letting me do what I want. I want to live life on my own terms, and they don’t appreciate that.”

“I s’pose they wouldn’t.”

He lapsed into silence the rest of the way to the airport. “Which airline, ma’am?”

I stared blankly. “Um. I don’t know. I’ve…I’ve never flown commercial before.”

This got me an amused stare in the mirror from Shawn. “They all the same, I guess. But if you’re going to Alaska, you might as well take Alaskan Airlines. Probably got the best deals and the most flights.”

“Alaska?”

Shawn laughed, then. “Well yeah. Ketchikan? It’s in Alaska.”

“Oh. Of course.”

He laughed again. “It ain’t Siberia, ma’am.”

“It’s not…like…a hunting camp or something? I don’t mind simple, but I draw the line at rustic.”

Another laugh, a deep guffaw as he pulled to a stop outside the appropriate terminal. “It’s a regular old American city. Bars, restaurants, a movie theater, shops, B-and-B’s, Wi-Fi, tourists. Nothing to be scared of. It’s just…in Alaska.”

I inhaled deeply. “Thank you, Shawn. Thank you so much, for everything.”

He shrugged. “All I did was drive you around.”

“True,” I said, “but you drove me away from Father and Thomas.”

Another chuckle. “Guess I did.” He nodded at the terminal. “Follow the signs to the Alaskan Airlines counter. Ask directions if you need to. They’ll help you.”

I thanked him again, exited the limo with my purse, overnight bag, and phone. It was easy to find the right counter, and I was in luck as there was a fight leaving in a little over than an hour. I had just enough time to get to the gate. There was a several hour layover in Seattle, but I could wait in the airport. It was already after ten at night, and the flight was at eleven-thirty and would arrive in Seattle at a quarter after two in the morning, and then another flight left for Ketchikan at seven-forty that same morning.

The flight was uneventful, if less comfortable than I was used to, and certainly lacked the privacy I was used to. I’d booked first class of course, but even that couldn’t touch the comfort of a private jet. I was doing this on my own, though, and that was the important thing. On my own, for myself.

I had no idea what was in store for me, but it would be an adventure. My adventure.

* * *

My adventure started when I fell asleep at the gate in Seattle and missed the flight, which meant another six and half hours in Seattle, so I took an Uber to the city and spent the day seeing the sights on foot, browsing Pike Place and getting coffee from the original Starbucks. Another Uber back to the airport in time for the flight, and I got to Ketchikan at three in the afternoon.

I’d spent some time Googling places to stay, and had actually managed to book a room at a little bed and breakfast. I got a cab from the airport to the B-and-B, checked in, and promptly passed out. I didn’t wake up until after midnight, and when I did wake up, I was wide-awake and knew I wouldn’t be going back to sleep again anytime soon. So I set out on foot, hunting for somewhere to get a drink and something to eat.

Turns out there wasn’t much, at that hour.

I wandered for over an hour up and down glistening, rain-wet streets, quiet and abandoned, the cute little shops all closed, restaurants darkened. As I walked, I Googled “late night food in Ketchikan” which brought up only a few results, a cafe which seemed like it was on the opposite end of the city from where I was, a couple all-night fast-food places, and a place called Badd’s Bar and Grill. There wasn’t much info or any pictures of the interior, but it had great reviews and seemed close to where I was. I opened up directions in Google Maps and followed them toward Badd’s.

On the way, I saw light coming from an open door and streaming through a couple of windows, and heard the deep thud of bass and the cheer of a crowd, so I ducked in, indulging my curiosity.

It was wall-to-wall humanity, a seething mass of bodies, all yelling and jumping and screaming; at first I’d thought it was a concert of some kind, but as I got into the crowd I realized the music was more just background, and that the crowd was centered around something happening in the center.

I got shoved a few times, and some elbows in my side, and I realized most of the crowd were men, with only a few women here and there.

I was dressed in casual clothes, nice slacks and a silk blouse, with my favorite flats—it was my backup clothing, easy to stuff into even a smallish bag and wouldn’t hold wrinkles, but it was still nice enough that I stood out.

And I was getting a lot of looks.

Like, a lot.

Most of the men were dressed in dirty jeans and wife-beaters, or black T-shirts with vile images on them. The women were, for the most part, companions to the men, and I do use the term “companions” loosely.

What had I wandered into?

I pushed through the crowd, feeling trepidation growing inside me. I had the very distinct feeling that I shouldn’t be here; I didn’t belong here. My concern was strong enough that it began to turn into fear. But…I wasn’t going to back down at the first sign of something different. I was here for an adventure, to discover life on my own terms. I couldn’t do that if I ran off every time I encountered something different or uncomfortable, or even a little scary.

So I pushed through the crowd until I was close enough to see what was happening. I immediately regretted it. I’d made it to the front row, which put me, literally, ringside.

“Ring” was another loose term, though. There wasn’t a ring, per se, just a roughly circular area cordoned off by stolen police barriers, the crowd all on the outside. Inside the barriers were two men. Both huge. Naked from the waist up, glistening with sweat. Blood dotted their chests and hands, ran down their faces from gashes and cuts, turning their faces to crimson masks. Their fists were taped, and they both wore shorts, one in blue and white, and the other in solid red, and they both wore special sneakers. One of the men, the one in solid red trunks, was significantly more muscled than the other, and seemed to be less bloodied.

My stomach turned at the sight of the blood, and I felt faint, but I couldn’t look away. The bigger one—he was huge. He was a monster, a colossal bruiser of a man, shoulders like mountain ranges, arms thicker than most men’s thighs, a trim waist and massive lat muscles, giving him an almost superhumanly exaggerated wedge shape. Instead of rippling, cut abs, he had a stomach that was so thickly muscled he looked capable of laughing off a kick from a horse.

And indeed, as I watched, his smaller and more bloodied opponent ducked, wove, and then cut loose with a brutal barrage of uppercut punches to Bruiser’s midsection, each blow furiously powerful, his taped fists thudding and smacking with loud echoes like the reports of gunshots. And Bruiser? He took the hits without flinching or blocking, a grin on his face, and then scythed a mammoth fist downward with the force of a descending meteorite. It connected with the smaller fighter’s cheekbone with a resounding crack, and the fighter stumbled backward…

He crashed into the barrier directly in front of me, so close I could smell his body odor, so close his sweaty shoulder smeared against me. And then Bruiser was on top of him, fists flying like rockets, launching one after the other in such fast succession the impacts seemed to create one sound—a crunching wet smack. My stomach turned at the sound, at the way the smaller fighter flinched and jerked at the crashing body blows.

I couldn’t move away—I was now pinned in place by the crowd.

Bruiser’s eyes flicked away from his opponent for a moment, and caught mine. It was an instant of eye contact, but I swear I felt a bolt of something pass between us, a spark, a recognition of sorts, even though I knew I’d never seen this man before. This close, he was more massive than I’d originally thought. I wasn’t short, at five-eight, but he was several inches taller than me…Thomas was six feet even, and this man was probably two or three inches taller than Thomas. His face, even through the mask of blood sluicing over his features from a cut to his eyebrow, was chiseled and gorgeous. His eyes were wide and deep set, a vivid, arresting shade of Yellow Lab brown-gold; his head was shaved on the sides, with the top a little too wide to be a mohawk, more of an extreme version of an undercut. The hair itself was probably brown, but right now it was nearly black from being sweat-wet, tied at the back of his head. His jawline was craggier than Mount Fiji, and I’ve seen that in person. And his body? Good god. He could rival John Cena for raw, brutal, perfect bulk.

All this passed through my head in an instant, as our eyes met. His gaze flicked over me as fast as mine did over him, and a tiny smile curled the corner of his mouth, amused, derisive, fascinated, lecherous; a very complicated smirk, to be sure.

And then the moment was over. His opponent was recovering, pushing himself off the barrier, assisted by eager hands from the crowd, and then the massive, brutally beautiful Bruiser swung his fist in a lazy haymaker, connecting with a disgusting smack, and I felt hot sticky wetness spray across my face. I nearly vomited when I passed my fingers across my forehead and they came away red with blood.

Bruiser laughed—actually laughed out loud, and even his voice was attractive, in a raw, powerful way. Deep, raspy, guttural. His laughter was rife with amusement at my disgust. He could afford the time to laugh at me, because the blow which had sprayed me with blood had also dropped his opponent to the ground in a limp heap.

I shoved through the crowd as it howled its approval.

I heard a voice from speakers somewhere. “Winner by K-O is the one, the only…BASHER!”

Of course his ring name was Basher. I caught a lot more glares, stares, and more than a few catcalls as I pushed through the crowd to the doorway, gasping for breath when I made it outside. Inside, the air had been wet with sweat and humidity and excitement, leaving me heaving with disgust at the thought of breathing in the perspiration of so many other people.

Not to mention the fact that my face was sticky with a man’s blood, drying into tacky clumps on my face. I didn’t dare wipe at it, knowing it would just smear worse. I had blood on my fingers, and I looked down and saw that my cream silk blouse was dotted with blood. My slacks, at least, were maroon and didn’t show blood very easily and could probably be salvaged, but my shirt was ruined.

I loved this blouse.

I nearly cursed, but didn’t.

I swallowed my anger and fear and disgust, and hurried away from the doorway of the warehouse that had held the fight. I only made it a few steps when I felt a prickling on the back of my neck, a crawling down my spine. I glanced over my shoulder and saw four shapes behind me by a dozen or so steps, dressed in baggy jeans and hoodies, hands in pockets.

“Hey, sweetheart, slow down. We just wanna talk.” The voice slithered with anticipation.

Yeah, they didn’t want to talk. I hurried, desperate now to reach the bar and grill I’d been heading for originally. It should only be a few blocks away. A left turn ahead, then a right, and it would be on my left two blocks down, with the docks on my right.

I was nearly running, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.

They were right behind me.

Fear clogged my throat; I was hyperventilating, gasping shrill sounds of terror.

“Come on, honey. Have some fun with us.”

“Yeah, we can show you a real fun time.”

No, no, no. Not like this. No.

I heard running steps, and then two were in front of me and two were beside me, hands grasping at my arms, at my waist, plucking at my shirt, reaching for my purse.

“Let go!” I shouted. “Leave me alone!”

“Awww, she don’t wanna play,” one of them drawled.

“I think we can convince her,” another said.

“Not here, though,” a third said. “Bring her into that alley there.”

I felt myself being lifted off the ground, and I kicked and screamed and thrashed, but a dirty, bitter-tasting hand clapped over my mouth. I kept screaming, the sound now muffled.

“Hold her legs,” I heard.

“I got her arms.”

“I saw her first, so I get first dibs,” another voice said. Eager, vile.

“I got seconds.”

“Eh, she’s fine enough I don’t mind sloppy thirds.”

I was pinned down, thrashing and kicking and screaming and biting, seeing faces and figures, a scruffy blond beard, pierced ears, tattoos on hands, black sweatshirts. I heard the jingling of a belt buckle.

No, please, please, please.

I saw the face of Bruiser in my mind, and wished he were here. Why, I wasn’t sure, but I felt like if he were here, he’d save me from this.

I clamped my thighs together and hooked one foot under the other. Hands pawed at my shirt, my slacks. I thrashed harder, making it as difficult as I could, fighting the need to cry. If I started crying, I’d stop fighting. No crying.

Absurdly, I could still feel the blood on my face.

“Fucking hold her, Brad. Jesus.”

“I’m trying, but she’s fuckin’ strong, bro.”

“Ya’ll are fuckin’ pussies.” I heard a metallic snick and felt something sharp touch the side of my cheek. “Pretty thing like you, wouldn’t want any scars would you? Hold still and we’ll finish with you soon enough. Keep fighting, well…I won’t kill you, but you won’t be as pretty anymore.” His voice was low and dark and quiet and terrifying, and I knew he meant it.

“Dude, Jimmy…this is supposed to be just a little bit of fun,” said the first voice.

“Shut the fuck up, Brad,” Jimmy said.

I went still.

I squeezed my eyes shut, prayed, begged silently as hands ripped at the clasp of my slacks.

And then I heard a sound…a choked gasp, and something like a watermelon hitting the ground.

“The fuck?” Brad’s voice.

“Hey, man, back off. We found her first.” This was the one who had told Brad to hold me still.

“Get the fuck out of here before I cut you to ribbons, motherfucker.”

The laugh, then…I knew that laugh. It was the same amused, gravelly chuckle I’d heard when the blood had sprayed my face. Maybe my pleas had reached God after all.

“Drop the knife, pussy-boy.” God, his voice. It sounded like the earth cracking open, like a boulder rolling through shale, crushing stones—rough, deep, powerful.

“Four of us, one of you, bitch.” Jimmy again.

“Three, now.”

“What’d you do to Tom?” That was Brad.

“Broke his fucking skull open, that’s what.” A shuffled step. “Maybe you don’t recognize me.”

“Shit! It’s Basher!” Brad again.

“Still three on one,” Jimmy said, his voice full of bravado.

I was frozen in place. Eyes shut, shaking all over.

Then my eyes flicked open, and I saw a massive shape blocking the alley entrance. Bruiser, standing in a pool of orange light from a streetlamp, still in his fighter shorts, but wearing combat boots and a hoodie, his face clean, the cut over his eye patched with a butterfly bandage.

His gaze went to me, and then flicked back up to the three men standing around me. There was a body on the ground, stilled, right beside me. I refused to look any closer.

Bruiser/Basher, whatever his name was—he had his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, casual, his body language relaxed. “Here’s how it’s gonna be, cocksuckers—I’m gonna count to three, and if you’re not gone, I’m gonna start breaking bones.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and his hands were still taped from knuckles to forearm, the once-white tape now pink-red with old blood. “One.”

The three men, my would-be rapists, shuffled forward, glancing at each other, each silently daring the other to make the first move.

“Two.”

“Jimmy, I think we should go,” Brad said, his voice fearful. “We’ve all made bank watching this dude fight. I don’t want any part of this shit.”

“Then fuckin’ run, you little pussy.” Jimmy, the tallest of them, a long folding knife in one hand, stepped forward.

Bruiser tipped his head back, a pleased, feral grin on his face. His hands, loose at his sides now, curled into fists and then relaxed again. “Three.”

I watched, I never took my eyes off him, but I still never saw him move. One moment he was standing in place, hands at his sides, utterly calm, and then there was a crunch and a body was flying backward. I watched Jimmy lunge, his knife slicing out. It hit nothing but air, because Bruiser was twisting aside, his fist crashing into another body. Not Jimmy’s, one of the others. I heard another crunch, a cry of pain, and then Bruiser punched again to the same spot, high in the ribcage, and his fist went into the body a little too far—the cracking, crunching sound was ribs being shattered.

I felt my stomach revolt, but couldn’t look away. I didn’t dare move a muscle, I didn’t want to be seen or be noticed. Jimmy still had the knife, and he might decide to use me as a shield. If I stayed still, hopefully the attention would stay on Bruiser, who was clearly more than capable of handling it.

The body with the broken ribs collapsed a few feet away from me, and his eyes went to me, hazed with agony. I didn’t feel sympathy at all.

Bruiser moved again, and this time his foot swung—I watched it connect with the guy he’d first struck, who was just now getting to his feet, slowly, groaning. Bruiser’s foot smashed into a kneecap, which went the wrong way, and then his fist darted out, and if cheekbones can break, that one did.

Now it was just Jimmy and Bruiser.

Facing off, the knife waving side to side in Jimmy’s hand, and then it flashed forward with sudden speed. Bruiser twisted aside, but not fast enough—I saw the blade slice open his sweatshirt, heard him grunt in pain as the edge bit into his flesh.

And then Bruiser lashed out with his hand, grabbing Jimmy’s wrist and twisting his arm away, and his other fist descended like a hammer, and I turned away just as Jimmy’s elbow was smashed until it faced the wrong direction. I covered my face with my hands, but found myself peeking through my fingers as Jimmy fell to his knees, groaning, breathless with agony. Bruiser stood over him, a mammoth predator, an avenging angel. One scything fist, and Jimmy’s face was crumpled, his jaw hanging loose as he toppled to one side. Bruiser wasn’t done—he planted a combat boot into Jimmy’s torso, and I heard bones break yet again.

He spat a gobbet of saliva at Jimmy. “Pussy.”

And then he turned his gaze to me, brows furrowing. I scrambled away as he prowled toward me—he’d saved me, yes, but what if he’d only saved me so he could have me for himself? I couldn’t seem to find my feet, could only scrabble with my feet on the ground, my butt scraping across the ground as I tried to get away from him—only to catch up against the cold metal of a dumpster.

He crouched three feet away from me, and his face was…well, features like his couldn’t be described as gentle, but his expression was soft and kind. “Hey, relax. I got you, Prada.”

Prada?

He reached out, and I realized he was handing me my purse, my favorite, a black Prada handbag. I snatched it from him and held it against my chest, all the emotions I’d been refusing to feel crashing into me now, fear—no, raw terror—chief among them.

“Listen, you gotta relax. I won’t hurt you.” He shifted a foot closer, his hand still extended in the same gesture I’d once seen Father’s horse trainer use to approach a skittish colt. “Deep breaths, okay? Just breathe. You’re fine.”

I was hyperventilating through clenched teeth, couldn’t catch my breath, lungs on fire, panic wracking me.

He was closer, now, close enough to touch, and his fingers pressed against the back of my hand. “Breathe, Prada. Breathe. You’ll pass out if you don’t breathe.” He reached up with his other hand and brushed a lock of my long black hair away from my eye, and his brown gaze met mine, and something in his eyes soothed me enough that I could suck in a shuddery breath. “That’s it, that’s it. One more time. Good. Now just keep breathing, all right, Prada? Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

I forced breath into my lungs and summoned my voice. “My name is Evangeline Du Maurier.”

He smiled at me. “Nice to meet you, Eva.”

“Evangeline,” I emphasized. “Not Eva.”

“Sure, sure. Evangeline, then.”

“And you are?”

Another voice came from a ways away, distant. “Bax! Where you at?”

“Alley!” Bruiser—who seemed to be named Bax—called out, without taking his gaze off me.

I heard a footstep, and then the same voice, closer. “Shit, Bax. What the fuck, man?”

Bax was in front of me, so from the mouth of the alley, whoever was looking for him couldn’t see me.

“That’s my brother, Zane,” Bax said to me. “He’s one of the good guys. Like me, for the record.”

Then he stood up and faced his brother, which gave me a look at him too. Six feet even, but almost as built as Bax, with his hair cropped close to his scalp, wearing jeans, a tight white T-shirt, and combat boots. “Seriously, Bax. You can’t go a fucking hour without getting into some kind of trouble?”

Bax gestured at me. “In this case, the trouble was legit. These four pieces of shit were about to rape my new friend Evangeline.”

The brother standing in the light was close enough that I could make out his expression, which went hard and violent. Baxter exuded violence, but his brother? His brother’s presence seethed with a roiling, potent sense of impending death.

“And you left them alive?” His voice was so quiet it was frightening.

Bax shrugged easily. “I’m not you, bro. I’ll cheerfully kick the ever-loving fuck out of people, but I generally try to draw the line at murder. Even in the case of attempted rape.”

“Yeah, well…I don’t.” His brother took a slow step toward the closest body, who was writhing in pain, groaning softly.

Bax’s eyebrows shot up, and he moved toward me. “Hold on a second, there, Zane. Why don’t we wait until I get Eva here somewhere else? I don’t think she needs to see anything else at this point.”

He lifted me to my feet, and his hand was huge as it enclosed mine, rough as sandpaper and powerful, but gentle. He hustled me out of the alley, but not before I took a backward glance at the men who had been about to rape me. Bax’s brother, Zane, was crouched down, picking up the discarded knife, examining the blade, and then he grabbed the nearest body with his empty hand and rolled him to his back. I looked away before I saw anything else.

“Is…is he really going to…kill them?” I asked, after we’d turned the corner.

“You gonna cry at their funerals if he does?” Bax asked, glancing at me.

His arm was around my waist, keeping me upright, because I realized I was having trouble walking, and it was only Bax’s arm that was holding me off the ground and keeping me moving.

I thought of their nasty, evil, eager voices and reaching, ripping hands, and what would have happened to me had Bax not shown up…and I shook my head. “He can have them.”

Bax’s laugh was dark. “That’s what I thought.”

“Won’t he get in trouble?” I asked.

Bax shook his head. “I’m not gonna be asking any questions, but Zane was a Navy SEAL, so this kind of thing is what he did for a living. I’m not worried.” He took my purse from me and held it by the black patent leather, hand-stitched handles. “Just don’t think about it, okay? Don’t give those fuckers another thought, and don’t worry about my brother. He can handle himself just fine.”

I think if any other male had tried to touch me, right then, I would have screamed. But for some reason, Bax’s arm around my waist was comforting. Part of me was terrified of him, knowing what he was capable of. But I also had no doubts that he’d never put a hand on me to hurt me.

My stomach flipped, lurched. I closed my eyes to focus on not puking, but when I closed my eyes, all I could see was those faces, and I could feel their hands on me, pawing at my breasts, ripping at my pants. I sagged in Bax’s hold, and shook away from him, collapsing downward. He guided me to a sitting position and I felt a wall at my back, and felt him beside me, close but not touching.

“Fuck.” He sighed the curse word tiredly. “You’re safe, Eva. I’ve got you. They’re gone. They’re taken care of.”

I nodded, but it wasn’t until I forced my eyes open that the images vanished, and even then I could almost feel their hands on me still, and I felt dirty. Grimy. Filthy. Breathing was hard.

Bax’s eyes scrutinized me. “You’re still freaking out, ain’tcha?”

I nodded. “Can’t—can’t breathe.”

“Listen.” He shifted so he was kneeling in front of me. “We gotta get you off the street. You need a drink, and you need a long hot shower and a change of clothes.”

“But I don’t have any other clothes.”

He didn’t ask any questions, which I appreciated, even though I would have, in his place. “Okay, well…if you trust me enough to come with me,” he said, “then I can get you all that—a stiff drink, a shower, clean clothes, and something to eat, if you’re hungry.”

I met his gaze. My mind flashed to him in the ring, huge and brutal, smashing his opponent to the ground with vicious ease; I saw him devastating four men as if they were nothing, one of whom had been armed. But yet, I looked into his eyes, and I only saw someone who cared about what had happened to me. He seemed to genuinely care, deeply, about what I needed and wanted.

I worked myself to my feet, and managed a slow, steadying breath. “I trust you.”

His grin was cocky and beautiful and kind all at once. “Thatta girl, Eva.”

“My name,” I snapped, “is Evangeline.”

“And my name is Baxter Badd.” He took my hand, bowed over it, and kissed the back of it, his eyes on mine, twinkling with amusement. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

One’s heart most assuredly should not do flips this soon after what I’d just experienced, but for some reason, mine did.