Pete

You lugged two bulging bags, your arms white with the strain, and every step sent a pain through your shoulders and lower back. There were two blocks left to go home.

Suddenly a brazen whistle was heard, followed by a velvety voice with a mocking hoarseness:

• Little one!

You froze. He stood by his overpriced car, arms crossed, a lazy grin on his face. Two grinning men from his entourage stood next to him.

"You're carrying it yourself? Where's your faithful knight?" He stepped closer, a shadow covering you. "Isn't the bag heavy? Watch out, you'll break your leg."

Blood rushed to his face from rage.

“Get out of my way,” you tried to walk around him, but he didn’t move.

"Maybe I should help? I'm in the mood to be a gentleman today," he purred right next to my ear.

“I prefer a hernia to your charity,” she yanked the bags sharply.

He burst out laughing, and then suddenly became serious - his eyes darkened, his smile became predatory.

Before you could even squeak, he grabbed you around the waist and lifted you off the ground with one jerk. You writhed, kicked your heels, screamed, but he didn't even flinch.

"Scream," he said calmly. "I'll say I was saving the groceries from falling into the mud."

And he carried you across the yard—past the bench with the old ladies, past the playground. You sat in his arms, flushed with humiliation, still clutching the handles of the bags.

"Just try to get into the building!" you hissed.

He snorted:

"Relax, little one. I'll just walk you to the door. I need to make sure my future wife gets home safe."

You froze, then kicked him hard in the shin. He hissed, but didn't stop. The front door was already very close.