The Assault
1254 Words
Eve Pov
The fourth drink goes down easier than the first three.
By the fifth, I'm not counting anymore.
The world tilts pleasantly, the sharp edges of my pain softening into something manageable. The music pulses through me, the bass vibrating in my chest, and for the first time tonight, I feel like I can breathe.
I'm leaning against the bar, my vision slightly unfocused, when he appears.
"Rough night?"
I turn to find a man standing beside me—mid-thirties, clean-cut, expensive suit. He's handsome in a generic way, the kind of face that blends into a crowd but knows how to smile.
"Something like that," I say, my words slightly slurred.
He signals the bartender. "Whatever she's having, and a scotch for me."
I should tell him I don't need another drink. I should tell him to f**k off.
But I don't.
Instead, I accept the glass when it arrives and take a long swallow.
"Bad breakup?" he asks, leaning closer.
I laugh—a bitter, hollow sound. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only because I've been there." He extends his hand. "Let me guess—he didn't deserve you."
"He was f*****g someone else," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "In our bed. While I was working my ass off to make rent."
"Then he's an idiot." His hand moves to my lower back, a touch that feels too familiar but I'm too drunk to care. "You're stunning. He's going to regret losing you."
The compliment washes over me, warm and intoxicating. When was the last time someone told me I was stunning? When was the last time someone looked at me like I mattered?
He buys me another drink.
And another.
The room spins pleasantly now, the music blurring into white noise. I'm laughing at something he said—I can't remember what—and his hand is on my waist, guiding me away from the bar.
"Let's get some air," he says, his voice smooth. "It's too loud in here."
I nod, stumbling slightly as I follow him.
He doesn't lead me outside.
Instead, he guides me toward a dark corner of the club—a narrow hallway near the bathrooms where the music is muffled and the lights don't reach.
"Wait," I say, my brain struggling to catch up. "Where are we—"
He pushes me against the wall.
Hard.
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and before I can react, his mouth is on mine—rough, demanding, his tongue forcing its way past my lips.
I freeze.
This isn't right.
I try to push him away, but my arms feel like lead, my coordination shot. "Stop—"
"Shh," he murmurs against my mouth, his hands groping my breasts through my dress. "You wanted this. You've been flirting with me all night."
"No—I didn't—"
His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my dress higher. I hear fabric tear—the sound sharp and final.
Panic floods through me, cutting through the alcohol haze.
"Stop!" I shove at his chest, but he's so much stronger, so much heavier. "Get off me—"
"Relax," he says, his breath hot against my neck. "You're going to enjoy this."
His hand moves to his belt, unbuckling it with practiced efficiency.
Oh God.
This is happening.
I try to scream, but his hand clamps over my mouth, muffling the sound.
Tears stream down my face as I thrash against him, but it's useless. I'm too drunk, too weak, too—
He's ripped away from me.
One second he's pressed against me, his hand on his zipper, and the next he's gone—yanked backward with such force that I hear the air leave his lungs in a violent gasp.
I collapse against the wall, my legs giving out, and through my blurred vision I see him.
A man.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit that looks like it costs more than my rent.
He has the man who attacked me by the throat, slamming him against the opposite wall so hard I hear something crack—bone or plaster, I can't tell.
"Do you have any idea," the stranger says, his voice low and lethal, "who you just tried to r**e?"
The man chokes, clawing at the hand around his throat. "I—I didn't—"
"You didn't what?" The stranger's grip tightens. "You didn't rip her dress? You didn't put your f*****g hands on her without permission?"
"Please—"
"You picked the wrong f*****g woman."
The stranger drags him toward the exit—a side door I hadn't noticed—and shoves him through it into the alley beyond.
I hear shouting.
Then a gunshot.
The sound echoes through the narrow hallway, sharp and final.
Silence.
I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter, my torn dress hanging off one shoulder, my vision swimming with tears and alcohol.
The door opens again.
The stranger steps back inside, his suit pristine, his expression cold and controlled.
He walks toward me slowly, like I'm a wounded animal that might bolt.
"You're safe," he says, his voice softer now. "He's not going to hurt you."
I try to speak, but the words won't come. My throat is closed, my chest heaving with sobs I can't control.
He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, covering my torn dress.
That's when I recognize him.
Damien.
Marco's uncle.
I've seen him at family gatherings—always in the background, always watching, always surrounded by men in suits who deferred to him like he was royalty.
"You—" I manage, my voice breaking. "You're—"
"Damien Castellano," he says. "And you're Eve."
I nod, unable to form words.
His phone rings.
He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, and his jaw tightens.
"What?" he answers, his tone clipped.
I can hear Marco's voice on the other end—loud, slurred, drunk.
"Uncle D! Hey, man, I need a favor."
Damien's eyes flick to me, then away. "I'm busy."
"It'll just take a second. I need permission to—uh—take care of a problem."
"What problem?"
"My girlfriend. She's boring as f**k, man. I'm done with her. Can I—you know—handle it?"
Damien's expression doesn't change, but something dark flickers in his eyes.
"Where are you?" he asks.
"Was with a b***h when my Eve caught me and f*****g dumped me, Why?"
Damien doesn't answer. He hangs up without another word and slides the phone back into his pocket.
Then he looks at me—really looks at me—and I see something in his face I can't name.
Disgust. Anger. Something else.
"You're coming with me," he says.
"I—I can't—"
"That wasn't a request."
He bends down and scoops me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
I should protest. I should tell him to put me down, that I can walk, that I don't need his help.
But I'm so tired.
So broken.
So f*****g done.
I let my head fall against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding me as he carries me through the club.
People stare.
I don't care.
The last thing I remember before the darkness takes me is the sound of his voice—low and commanding—as he tells someone to bring his car around.
And the faint, distant thought that everything just changed.
- Writer
