Page 17 of Tempted By Shadow

“Miss Medina.” His voice is calm. Businesslike. “We need to talk about your boyfriend’s debt.”

“What?” I grip the bat tighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“Tyler Reeves.” The man takes a step closer. “He owes me a significant amount of money. He told me you’d be good for it. Then he disappeared.”

Tyler. Of course it’s Tyler. Even gone, even vanished, he’s still finding ways to ruin my life.

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore. And I don’t know anything about Tyler’s debts. I don’t have any money. He cleaned out my account when he left.”

“That’s unfortunate.” The man’s expression doesn’t change. “But debts don’t disappear just because the debtor does. Someone has to pay.”

“She’s not paying for his mistakes.” Shadow’s voice is flat. Dangerous. “And you’re not touching her.”

The older man raises an eyebrow. “And you are?”

“The guy who’s going to put you through that wall if you take another step toward her.”

One of the muscle guys laughs. “Kid, there’s three of us and one of you.”

“I like those odds.”

Everything happens at once.

The first guy lunges. Shadow meets him halfway, no hesitation, no fear — just violence, fast and brutal. His fist connects with a jaw and the man staggers. The second one is on him immediately, and suddenly there’s a fight happening in my living room.

I swing the bat at the older man when he tries to move past the chaos toward me. He dodges, but it keeps him back. Keeps him from getting close.

Shadow is a blur of motion. Fists and elbows and dirty tricks — he fights like someone who learned on the street, someone who knows there are no rules when your life is on the line. He takes hits. A fist to the face, another to the ribs. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. Just keeps throwing himself at anyone who gets too close to me.

One of them pulls a knife. The blade glints in the dim light from the streetlamp outside.

“Shadow!”

He turns at my voice, and the blade catches him across the ribs. Blood blooms through his shirt — dark, spreading fast — but he doesn’t go down. He grabs the guy’s wrist, twists hard, and something cracks. The knife clatters to the floor. Shadow’s elbow connects with the guy’s temple and he drops.

The other muscle guy is already down, groaning on the floor, not getting back up.

That leaves the older man. He’s watching Shadow with something that might be respect, might be calculation. His two guys are on the ground, and the prospect is still standing, bleeding but ready to go again.

The man reaches into his jacket. I don’t think — I just swing. The bat catches him across the shoulder, hard enough to knock him sideways, and Shadow is on him before he can recover. One punch, two, and the man crumples.

Silence.

Shadow is breathing hard, swaying on his feet. Blood drips from his ribs onto my floor. But he’s still standing. Still between me and the three unconscious men in my living room.

“Extension cords,” I say, my voice shaking. “The drawer by the fridge. And I have zip ties in my junk drawer — leftover from hanging pictures.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“We’re not letting them wake up and walk out of here,” I say. “Tie them up. Then we call King.”

It takes us ten minutes. Shadow’s hands are shaking — blood loss, adrenaline crash, probably both — but we get it done. Three men, wrists and ankles bound, lined up against my living room wall. The older one is starting to stir, groaning, but he’s not going anywhere.

“Bathroom,” I tell Shadow. “Now. You’re bleeding everywhere.”

He doesn’t argue. I push him to sit on the edge of the tub while I dig through my medicine cabinet. Gauze, antiseptic, bandages, butterfly closures I bought months ago and never used. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold anything.

“Take off your shirt. I need to see it.”