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“Get away from her,” I growl, stepping from the shadows.

All heads turn toward me. The men exchange glances, assessing. I know what they see—expensive suit, no visible weapon. One against three. They don’t recognize the warrior in their midst.

“Mind your own business, man,” one says, dismissive.

“This is my business.” I move closer, positioning myself between her and them.

“Griffin?” Maya’s voice is slurred. “What the hell do you want now?”

I don’t answer her. I won’t take my eyes off the threats surrounding us.

“Looks like the lady doesn’t want your help,” the tallest man says, grinning. “So, why don’t you run along before you get hurt?”

Something about his tone, the casual assumption that he has any power in this situation, makes my control snap. The growl that rumbles from my chest is barely human.

“Leave,” I order, my voice carrying an authority that not many humans can fully resist. “Now.”

Two of them hesitate. But the tallest stands his ground, pulling a knife from his pocket that gleams dully in the dim light.

“Make me,” he says.

I’m on him before the second word leaves his mouth. The knife clatters to the ground as I lift him by the throat, my fingers tightening just enough to restrict his breathing. His eyes bulge with terror as he finally recognizes what I am—something other than human, something dangerous.

“I could kill you,” I say softly, for his ears alone. “Break your neck before your heart completes its next beat.” I tighten my grip a fraction more. “Remember that the next time you think of hunting women in dark alleys.”

I throw him aside like the trash he is. He hits the wall hard enough to crack the brick and slides to the ground with a groan. His friends are already fleeing, survival winning out over loyalty.

Turning to Maya, I find her staring at me with wide, unreadable eyes.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, scanning her for injuries.

She stares at me before picking up her bag, which must have fallen at some point, and staggering out of the alley.

“Maya—”

Her feet trip over the uneven pavement.

I catch her before she falls, lifting her into my arms. She doesn’t protest, just lets her head rest against my shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut. The trust in the gesture makes my heart clench painfully.

“I’m taking you home,” I tell her, already moving toward her apartment building. Her lack of objection worries me more than any protest would have.

At her door, she fumbles with her keys until I gently take them from her and unlock it with steady hands. Her apartment is sparsely furnished, impersonal. A temporary stop, not a home. There is a television in the living room. An armchair facing it and a small table to the side. There is nothing else in the room. No pictures, no books, no shelves. Just an unassuming living room with a place to sit, something to put her things on, and a TV that looks like it has seen better days.

The place looks so lonely.

I set her down carefully in the armchair. Her eyes track my movements as I fill a glass with water in her kitchen and bring it to her.

“Drink,” I say, pressing it into her hands.

She complies mechanically. When she finishes, she sets the glass down and immediately reaches for a half-empty bottle on the side table.

“No.” I move it out of reach. “You’ve had enough.”

Something flashes in her eyes—the first real emotion I’ve seen since our confrontation in the conference room. “Give it back.”

“No.”

“It’s mine.” Her voice rises slightly. “You have no right—”