I’m disgusted. This is disgusting.

Tightening his arm around my neck, he hisses, “Shut your mouth and don’t make a fucking sound.” His smell all around me, crying as hard as I am, I gag.

His hand leaves my most intimate place, comes up under my shirt, and squeezes my breast.

My heart weeps with every revolting touch. He fondles my body as he likes, as if I were a toy and not human at all. Sliding his hand down my ribs, he rests it on my hip a moment before he utters, “Oh, man. You’re a pretty one.” He then slips his hand down the back of my panties, squeezes my ass cheeks hard, and my body jerks with every loud, muffled sob.

I’ve never been violated. But I work with people who have. And now I know that every single time I said the words I understand to one of my kids, I didn’t.

Not even close.

I can almost feel my heart shatter.

Suddenly, I’m pulled back harshly. I land on the hard concrete with a dull thud and watch the scene before me in alarm.

My large attacker gets his face slammed into the bricks at the side of the building by an equally tall man.

The black hoodie.

It’s him.

He holds onto my attacker’s neck and throws his head down while he brings up his knee.

Thunk, thump.

He does this again and again. My gut revolts at the level of ferocity before me. Eventually, I hear soft pings hit the ground and realize my attacker has lost some teeth.

Oh God.

The man in the hoodie continues his wordless assault. He throws my attacker on the ground and kicks him in the ribs as if he were kicking a football. He does this a few more times before his eyes catch me.

Breathing heavily, he stops and comes towards me.

Petrified, I watch him come towards me through blurry eyes. He’s almost at my feet when I whisper shakily, “Please, stop. Don’t come any closer.”

My elbows throb; the skin on them surely gone. I try to scramble backwards and cry out in pain.

That’s when he does something I’ve been wishing for forever.

He lowers the hood.

“Not gonna hurt you.”

Oh God. That voice. It’s just how it sounds in my dreams.

Smooth with a little huskiness. Then, something registers with me. “You’re American.”

Not missing a beat, he says, “So are you.” The tone of his voice conveys boredom.

Looking up at him, I still can’t see his face in the dark, but I hear a zipper come down and I whimper out loud.

Choking through tears, I beg, “Please, don’t hurt me. Please.”

Not saying a word, he comes towards me. Trembling, I shut my eyes tight and plead on a whisper, “Please. Please. Don’t.”

His strong arms come under mine and he lifts me to a standing position. He pulls something warm over my shoulders, and its then that I realize the zipper I heard was actually his jacket, not his pants.

I’m so relieved that I slump forward into him.

Burying my face into his chest, he wraps his arm around me while I sob noisily. His body bends and he reaches down. My pants come up my legs and he holds them in place, clearly too torn to zip up.

Leaving my attacker where he is, I secretly hope he’s dead. From the shuddering gasping noises he makes, I’m not so lucky.

The man holds me to him, walking me up to my unit. He takes his time with me, being extremely patient as I try to get my shaking legs up the steps to the second floor.

Once we reach my unit and he opens the door, it doesn’t hit me until we’re inside that he knows where I live.

So why don’t you feel like you’re in danger?

Because I’m not. I just know it.

I’m sure of it.

He closes the door behind us, flips on the light switch, and walks me down the short hall to my room. That’s when I see his skin.

Decorated. Like one massive piece of art.

No longer crying, I ask through shuddering breaths, “Have you been here before?”

But he doesn’t answer me.

Walking me to my bed, he sits me down, then walks out my bedroom door. Not thirty seconds pass when I hear the shower start, then he’s back in my room.

He doesn’t even look at me, just goes through my drawers, pulling out items of clothing for me.

So while I have a moment, I take him in.

If I saw this man on the street, the way he’s dressed right now, I would put my head down and walk the other way. And pray to God that he doesn’t see me do that, because a man looking like this while being pissed off is surely not a good thing.

He is gorgeous, though. Just not in a conventional way.

He’s tall, a little over six feet, with a muscular body and olive skin. His dark brown hair is shaved close to the scalp at the sides, but long on the top. He wears dark blue jeans that encase his long and powerful legs, a white tee that covers his broad chest and shoulders, and he’s rocking white sneakers and a thick black leather belt. But it’s what’s under the tee that draws me in.

Tattoos line his arms and neck. He has a small 13 tattooed on his right cheekbone.

The backs of his hands are beautiful. There’s no other word for it. On the back of the left hand is an intricate, black-shaded rose with a smoky grey outline; the right hand has a grey-shaded skull with smoke lacing through it. It looks so lifelike, I shiver.

Oh God.

“You’re hurt.”

His knuckles are bleeding and swollen.

Stopping in his tracks, he turns his hooded eyes to me. They aren’t hooded in a sexy way, just a bored, broody kind of way. Permanently.

It looks good on him.

He’s handsome and would look something like a clothing model without the tattoos. He has a strong chin, full bottom lip, and high cheekbones. His eyes are a soft brown. He mumbles, “Don’t worry about it. Go shower.”

Not sure why I’m taking orders from a man who likes to watch me from under a hood, but I am. As soon as I stand, the hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I ask his retreating back, “Will you still be here when I get out?”

Turning slowly, he watches me curiously from those hooded eyes. We watch each other for a good thirty seconds before he asks in that husky voice, “You want me to be?”

Not trusting myself to speak, I avoid his eyes and nod.

I feel immediate relief when he nods in return, turns, and orders, “Shower.”

Taking my robe off the back of my bedroom door, I shuffle my way into my small bathroom and undress without looking in the mirror. If I look in the mirror at the state of myself right now, I know I’ll be past freaked-out. In fact, I’m sort of questioning why I’m not freaking out more than I am.

Stupidly, I peek at my reflection and bark out a laugh.

The mirror is so fogged that I can’t see a thing. It just wasn’t meant to be.

Undressing quickly, I step into the scalding hot spray, and hold myself there for as long as possible without actually getting burned. Reaching out blindly, I turn the knobs until the spray turns cooler and think about what just happened to me.

Did I really just get assaulted by a big scary man, then get saved by my stalker?

…Yeah. That about sums it up.

The first tear comes hard.

The next comes easier.

The rest fall freely, as if they were summoned by the first.

Holding a palm up to the wall of the shower to steady myself, my body shakes in silent sobs.

I don’t want him to hear me.

Breathing deeply, I pull myself together and use the last of my energy to wash my hair. I soap up, rinse off, and head out.

Wrapping myself in my robe, I brush out my hair, then exit the bathroom to hear movement in the kitchen. Stepping into my room, I drop the robe and dress in the clothes he’s laid out for me.