Half Of My Heart

DIMITRI

God, I’m a stalker. I realize it as I wait for Anya outside her gym, leaning against my SUV after having walked a bit to stretch my legs. I’m stalking her.

I tend to do that, though, let my instincts get the best of me. I just want to protect her, to make sure she is okay, and to do that, I need to keep an eye on her.

That’s what I tell myself, at least. That I showed up at her gym because I want to check to make sure she’s doing ok. Not because… because I can’t stop thinking about her.

Even now, after having waited for hours, I don’t know what I am still doing here, what my plan is. Will I just follow her home, or will I talk to her?

No, I can’t talk to her—I won’t be able to explain my presence.

I should just go, I think with a sigh. Pushing away from my car, I move to get back in when a sudden cry in the air has me jerking my head in the direction of the gym.

“Let me go!” a woman screams.

No, that is Anya screaming.

Before I know it, my feet are taking me to a nearby alley where the screams are coming from. My heart races as I turn the corner, and I see Anya’s mane of golden locks, caught between two large men.

I stop thinking, and a growl comes out of my chest.

I glare at them with my grimmest expression, every nerve urging me to annihilate them.

The men just stand there, sizing me up for a moment, before they exchange a glance, turn around, and run off.

I pull Anya firmly to my chest and press her face against my torso. They are making the right choice, but they won’t get away with what they have done. I don’t easily forget faces, and fury has burned theirs into my mind.

Shaken from the incident, Anya grips the sleeve of my shirt with trembling fingers. She hangs on to me, tears in her eyes, her eyelids tapering to distressing slits.

I take some moments to collect myself, feeling the dread of what could have happened—something unfathomable—still lingering in my veins. My jaw remains clenched while my arms cinch around her, holding her tighter.

“Thank you,” she says, taking a step back, but I haul her to me, crushing her breasts against my chest.

Tipping her chin up with a thumb and forefinger, I move her head from left to right to check if they hit her. Cold anger holds me prisoner as I drag my thumb over her cheekbone, where inflamed pink skin suggests a bruise will likely form.

“Anya, do you want to go to the cops?” I drop my hand from her cheek and grab her hand that is on my chest, squeezing it.

Her gaze softens, the fear in them dissipating like a puff of smoke. “I’ll go tomorrow. It’s too late tonight, and I’m tired.”

“You’re hurt. Let me take you home. I’ll help you clean up,” I say, giving her a smile. “Or would you like me to take you to the emergency room?”

She looks away for some reason, but I notice the effect my words have on her by the reddening of her cheeks. “Not necessary, Mr. Rossi,” she says after a moment of hesitation.

When Anya pushes against me, I release my hold on her. She takes a step back from me and adjusts the strap of her duffle bag, moving it from across her chest diagonally to hanging from one shoulder.

I force my posture to relax, but my jaw hardens further. “Let me help you, Anya. Please.”

Instead of responding, she fingers the bag strap and fixes her gaze on the ground.

Her silence fills me with a new dread because I am pretty sure I know what she is thinking: something along the lines of Why is he even here in the first place?

Then, exactly as I imagine, she asks just that.

My heart skips a beat before the words tumble out of my mouth. “I had to talk to you. I knew you’d be here.” Panic takes over as I struggle to think of what to say if she asks how I know that, but she doesn’t.

“Oh,” she mutters. “What did you want to talk about?” Her eyes are still on the ground, but even in the darkened alley, she manages to glow in a subtle way that gives a glimpse of the sharpness of her features.

“Anya, come on. Look at me.”

She complies, but her gaze doesn’t linger. Instead, she steals glances at me, avoiding looking straight into my eyes.

Knowing what I know about her, I suspect she fears I might see her vulnerability. So, she must think I want to talk about the kiss, which I do, but not here, and not now.

My sigh is heavy as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let me take you home at least,” I insist. “No more walking alone here.”

She laughs a little at my brisk politeness, finally meeting my eyes. “Mr. Rossi, you can’t be serious.”

“Stop calling me that,” I grumble. “Come on. Let me take you.” I turn away without another word, leaving her with no other choice than to follow me.

My car is parked across the street, and I open the door like a gentleman for her. She slips inside, groaning when her ass lands on the leather seat. She leans back and shuts her eyes while I get in the driver’s seat.

I pass her a box of Kleenex from the glove compartment then turn the key in the ignition as she wipes the dirt off her face.

Anya’s hands aren’t shaking, I notice; she doesn’t seem fazed by the attack. She is cleaning herself like it is an ordinary thing, and I can’t stop the initial surprise and subsequent anger that overcome me.

It is sad how girls have become so accustomed to the idea of being abused that getting dragged into an alley by two drunkards seems like an event expected to happen someday. What kind of a world are we living in?

Her eyes drift closed shortly after I drive away from the gym. The quietness inside the car, between us, is comforting. I glance at her at each turn, afraid that she will get hurt again somehow, but from what I can see, she is almost asleep, her body swaying gently.

When I stop the car and turn it off, she jerks awake. She blinks as she looks around at her surroundings, and then she whips her head toward me. Before she can throw questions at me, I am already out of the car, walking around the front to her door.

Her mouth and eyes are agape by the time I reach her side and open the door. “You said you’d take me home,” she says, gasping when I reach for her and slip one hand under her waist and the other under her knees.

After lifting her—she weighs close to nothing—I kick the door shut. She holds onto my neck, her eyes fixed on my face. In my arms, her body rocks with every step I take.

“I have brought you home,” I state, holding her gaze. “My home.”