Chapter 4 Her Husband

Sarah POV

"Who the fuck are you?" asked the bearded man.

"Her husband." Michael's voice carried a cold authority that made something deep in my chest respond instinctively.

The bearded man let out a harsh laugh. "Husband? Look at this pretty boy thinking he can tell us what to do." He gestured to his buddies with his free hand. "You see four of us here, right? Maybe you should walk away and let the grown-ups handle this."

"Let. Her. Go." Each word fell like a hammer blow.

I'd never heard Michael speak like this before. Gone was the gentle, almost hesitant man from our brief encounters. This version of him stood with an unconscious command that seemed at odds with his claim of being a mid-level business manager.

"Or what?" The man's grip on my wrist became painful, making me wince. "You gonna make us?"

That's when I saw something flash across Michael's face—something dark and dangerous that made my heart skip.

"I'm asking you nicely," Michael said, taking a step forward. "This is your last chance to do this the easy way."

One of the other men, apparently braver with liquid courage, stood up and shoved Michael hard in the chest. "Back off, asshole!"

Michael barely moved. He absorbed the shove like it was nothing more than a gentle push. The drunk who'd pushed him looked suddenly uncertain.

"That was a mistake," Michael said quietly.

What happened next was so fast I almost missed it. Michael's hand shot out and grabbed the shoving man's wrist, twisting it in a way that made the guy yelp and drop to one knee. At the same time, his other hand moved to the bearded man's forearm—the one holding me—applying pressure to some point that made him release my wrist with a curse.

"Jesus Christ!" he stumbled backward, shaking his hand. "What the hell?"

Michael positioned himself directly between me and them. There was something almost military about the way he moved, like he'd been trained for situations exactly like this.

"Now you've pissed me off," the bearded man snarled, pulling a small knife from his pocket.

That's when the kitchen door burst open.

Tony charged out, brandishing a shotgun, barrel pointed directly at the group of men. "Enough! Everyone step back NOW!"

The restaurant went dead silent.

"I'm calling the police," Tony announced, reaching for the phone.

The sight of the shotgun seemed to cut through the alcohol-fueled bravado.

"This isn't over," the bearded man muttered, but he was already backing toward the door.

"Apologize to the lady," Michael said, his voice still carrying that edge of absolute authority. "Now."

Under the combined pressure of Tony's shotgun and whatever intimidating presence Michael was projecting, they mumbled grudging apologies before stumbling out into the night.

As soon as the door shut behind them, my knees buckled. The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright suddenly drained away, leaving me shaky and overwhelmed.

"Are you hurt?" Michael was beside me instantly, his hands hovering near my shoulders but not quite touching.

"I'm okay," I managed. "Thank you. Both of you."

Tony set the shotgun down and wiped sweat from his forehead. "Thanks for protecting Sarah," he said to Michael, extending his hand. "I'm Tony."

"Michael Johnson," Michael replied, shaking Tony's hand firmly. "I should be thanking you for protecting my wife."

"Sarah's husband, ha?" Tony raised an eyebrow. "She never mentioned she was married. When did this happen?"

"Very recently," Michael confirmed with a slight smile.

"Well, I better get back to the kitchen," Tony said, still looking curious but tactful enough not to press.

After Tony disappeared into the kitchen, an awkward silence settled between Michael and me. We were finally alone, and I realized I had no idea what to say to this man who was apparently my husband.

"So," I started. "Thank you. Again. You didn't have to..."

"Yes, I did. You're my wife."

The way he said it sent an odd flutter through my stomach. There was a possessiveness in those words that should have bothered me, but somehow didn't.

"Can I ask you something?" I found myself studying his face, looking for clues to the man I'd just witnessed. "Where did you learn to do that? That thing with their wrists?"

Michael shifted uncomfortably. "Business can be... challenging sometimes. I've had to take some self-defense classes."

It felt like a partial truth. "What kind of business development requires that level of training?"

"The kind where you sometimes have to negotiate with difficult people in difficult places," he said. "Not everyone conducts business in boardrooms."

I tilted my head, intrigued. "That sounds dangerous."

"Most of the time it's just meetings and paperwork," Michael said, then seemed to catch himself. "What about you? Tell me about Tony. You two seem close."

I felt myself relax at the change of subject. "He's been like a protective older brother since I started working here. His wife Maria has been in the hospital for months—she has this rare autoimmune condition that requires experimental treatment. The insurance barely covers any of it."

"That must be incredibly stressful for him."

"It is. He works here during the day and spends his evenings at the hospital. My mom actually helped him get this job. She works as a janitor at Star City General next door and met Maria when she was first admitted. Mom has this thing about helping people who are struggling, so she asked me to put in a word with the owner here. This way, Tony can save money for the medical bills and stay close enough to visit Maria during his breaks."

"Your mother sounds like a remarkable woman."

"She is. She's been through so much, but she never loses that instinct to take care of others."

"Actually, that's why I came tonight," Michael said, meeting my eyes. "I wanted to see you, and I was hoping to meet your mother too."

I felt a flutter of surprise. "Really? But I thought your work was keeping you busy."

"All caught up," he said simply.

The way he said it made warmth spread through my chest. "She gets off work at nine. We could go see her after my shift ends, if you want."

"I'd like that," Michael said, then glanced around the restaurant. "Mind if I wait here? I could grab some dinner."

"Of course. Tony makes excellent pasta."

Michael ordered the Italian special and sat at the bar counter where I was working. Every few seconds, I'd catch him watching me, and each time our eyes met, he'd give me a small smile. Having him there felt oddly natural, like he belonged in this space.

But that lightness didn't last long.

Tony burst out from the kitchen, phone clutched in his trembling hand, his face drained of all color.

"Sarah!" His voice cracked with panic. "Maria just called. Your mother collapsed at the hospital!"