3. It's Me, Stefan

Mari’s POV

I gasp and scramble back, running into Jim. He grabs my arm to steady me before pulling me to the back of the bar, far from the counter.

From here, we watch the fight take an interesting twist.

There are four people—three men and a woman—now attacking Connor and his buddies. It’s one of them who just threw Connor onto the floor. With a single leap over the counter, he lands on the floor next to Connor, grabs his shirt collar, and then punches him in the face over and over again.

Jim moves and hurries out of the bar area, heading for the doorway where Joseph is lying, blood oozing from his stomach.

A quick glance at the fight reveals that the four strangers are doing fine work of subduing Connor and his men. They seem to have already kicked three of them out. Connor is still in the hands of the guy who interrupted him, and with how bloody he looks, I doubt he’ll be able to attack anyone tonight.

I hurry over to Jim. Joseph is still conscious, his hand grasping at his wound.

“Get the first aid box in his office,” Jim instructs, stripping his white shirt and bundling it up. He presses it to Joseph’s stomach. “And call for an ambulance.”

“Okay,” I reply, hurrying first to the changing room to get my phone. I call for the ambulance as I make my way to Joseph’s office to get the box.

When I get back, the fight is done. The security men are now in custody of Connor and his men, tying their hands behind their backs.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” I tell Jim as I kneel down next to him and hand him the box.

He takes the box, opens it, and reaches for the white gauze. “Is that your boyfriend?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply, my hands fisting on my lap. “Broke up with him this evening.”

He grunts. “He didn’t like that, did he?” he asks, snipping the gauze with a pair of scissors.

I take a deep inhale, shaking my head. “No.”

Jim replaces his shirt, now soaked with blood, with the sterile gauze.

“Oh my God, is he okay?” Christie appears, her voice hysterical. Her brown eyes are wide and teary as she looks down at our boss. Her white uniform shirt is soaked, probably with beer.

Joseph grunts and inhales sharply.

“The ambulance will be here soon,” Jim assures him.

“Mari…”

My blood runs cold when my name leaves our boss’s lips. I look at him to find him glaring at me, his teeth clenched together.

“I’m sorry, boss, I didn’t know he would… I didn’t know…”

“Never step foot in my club ever again,” he seethes, gasping for air. “Let me never see your pathetic face here again.”

Jim gives me a worried look, then looks back at Joseph. “Boss, this is not her—”

“Get the fuck out of my club!” Joseph roars with more energy than he seems to have. He lays his head back on the floor, groaning in pain.

I rise to my feet. My legs are shaking, my heart going a mile a minute. I hope he’ll be okay. He has to be. I don’t blame him for throwing me out. I was quitting anyway.

“He’s just in pain and pissed off right now,” Jim tells me. “I’ll call you later.”

I shake my head. “Don’t. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

I turn on my heels and rush to the changing room. Quickly, I get out of my uniform and pull on the jeans and T-shirt I was wearing earlier. I fold the uniform and leave it on the counter, then put on my sneakers. I shove my heels in my bag and shoulder it, ready to leave.

That’s when I notice that I’m not alone.

There’s a man standing in the doorway, watching me.

That man who just beat the hell out of Connor.

I stumble backwards, my back pressing into the counter behind me. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice feeble and shaky. I just can’t seem to stop shaking. I’ll probably calm down when I’m hundreds of miles away from this place.

He takes a step into the room, his eyes set on me. He’s blonde and tall, devilishly handsome, and dressed in all black. Something nudges the back of my brain but doesn’t come out to the surface. I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.

The closer he gets, the harder my heart pumps. I feel like cornered prey, with my predator approaching slowly as if it’s seconds before he catches and devours me.

A quick look at the doorway reveals we are alone.

“What do you want?” I ask again, trying to sound a little braver than I’m feeling.

He comes to a stop, about two feet from me. He’s close enough that I can make out his grey eyes. Close enough that I can make out the fine scar running from the corner of his left eye to his chin. Oddly enough, the scar does nothing to make him appear less striking.

God, I don’t think I’ve seen a man this good looking before.

And that’s definitely not what I should be thinking about right now.

“Shouldn’t you be thanking me?” he asks, his voice calm. “When did you lose your manners, Mari Angela?”

Thanking…

Yes…

He is right.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “Thanks.”

He smiles. Like a genuine smile, as if he’s pleased or something. “Don’t mention it. I told you I would always protect you, didn’t I?”

What?

A frown forms on my face. He did? When? I’ve never seen him a day in my life.

And did he just use my middle name correctly?

Everybody here calls me Mari or Marianne. The only person who bothered to use my middle name correctly was my mother…

How does he even know my name?

“Who are you?” I whisper, my alarms going off.

His smile drops. Then he arches an eyebrow. “I know it’s been thirteen years, and we are no longer kids, but come on, you can see the similarity, right?”

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He chuckles, then takes another step toward me. He tilts his head to the side. “Look, Mari, we have to leave, and I don’t have time for your little games.”

Leave? We? Little games? Am I missing something here?

I’m about to tell him that I really, really have no idea who he is when he crosses the little space between us. I gasp as his body comes up against the front of mine.

“What the fuck—” my words die on my lips as he grips my chin in his fingers and lifts my face to his. My eyes crash into his. His, that are giving me such an intense stare that I feel like he can see into my very soul.

It becomes impossible to form thoughts, let alone words, with him staring at me like that. With him pressed up to me like this. I’m super aware of it, every little inch of my body where we are making contact.

“Stefan,” he whispers, his warm breath wafting across my face. “It’s me, Stefan. That jog your memory now?”

I shake my head. Stefan? A tall, blond, grey-eyed Stefan who looks like this? Nah, I would remember him.

But he mentioned thirteen years…

Thirteen years ago, I was ten!

Was he a neighbourhood kid or something? All I remember from that age were the bullies who used to call me a motherless freak—something that they picked up from my very own stepmother—before my mother came and took me away.

I blink and swallow hard. “I don’t remember. I didn’t know anyone called Stefan.”