Page 87 of Micah

Two tables are overturned.

One chair is missing a leg.

Beer drips lazily off the edge of the counter where somebody's face had apparently met solid oak with enough force to crack the finish.

Four grown men.

Four huge men.

Men I'd been absolutely certain were about to...

I shove the thought away before it can finish.

But then he came.

Micah.

Like some beautiful and deadly avenging angel and he—he saved me.

More than that.

Micah had taken them apart with his bare hands.

It didn’t look wild or reckless.

No.

His moves were methodical, clinical.

Every hit and block had been precise.

Deliberate.

Terrifying.

He hadn't even looked angry.

Not really.

He'd looked certain.

Like he'd done it before, and he was resigned.

Like violence wasn't something he enjoyed.

It was simply another tool in the toolbox.

One he knew exactly how to use.

The realization sends a little shiver through me.

Not of fear.

Something else.

Respect.

Relief.