She's onto me. She's got to be by now. After that little stunt.

  I bet she's squirming.

  God, I'd love to watch her squirm. Or squirt. Whatever comes first.

  But for now, I'll keep her at an arms length. I have to, until I figure out if I can trust her with this.

  Watching her from a distance seems like the best bet.

  It's hard not to watch her.

  Not just because my fate is literally in her hands, but because she is probably - no, actually, the most beautiful woman I've ever met. Body and soul.

  A coffee shop isn't the worst place for a meet-cute, but it is pretty cliche.

  That's back when she was still running from Mark.

  Fuck Mark.

  About six years ago, she had walked into the shop in a near frenzy, tearing her sunglasses off of her face, revealing huge blue eyes ringed in red, as if she'd been crying. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, like a shadowy halo. Her full hips swished past all of the other patrons, and a few men turned from their coffee to gawk at her.

  All five feet of her commanded a presence, in any room. Even slightly disheveled, in black leggings and an obscure band tee, she was a queen. And unlike other women I'd met before, I'd bow to her in all of the reverence she deserved.

  She half-slammed her debit card on the counter in front of me, pointed those insanely blue eyes at me, and said,

  “Venti Chai latte, extra dirty,” before adding, “and are you hiring?”

  I was stunned. It took a moment to realize what I'd been asked. I began typing on the register, keying in her order.

  “Chai latte, filthy. And a name for the order?”

  “Natalia,” she breathed.

  “And yes,” I said, “we are hiring.”

  We weren't, but I'd open up a spot for her. Preferably anything that kept her in close proximity to me.

  I watched a few different emotions play on her perfect face as she processed the information.

  “Would you like an application?”

  “Yes,” she responded. “I think.”

  I handed her the paperwork from beneath the register and she took a seat in the far corner of the shop to fill it out.

  I watched her as inconspicuously as I could while I finished up her drink.

  The memory of her, right leg crossed over left, one elbow resting on the table, twirling an errant strand of hair, while softly biting the end of the pen is seared into my brain.

  I knew at that moment, I'd do anything for her.

  As I turned back, she was in front of me.

  “All done,” she glanced down at my name tag. “Thanks, Luke.”

  A shiver ran up my spine as she said my name. It took every ounce of willpower in my body not to touch her. I settled on brushing her hand softly as she handed me her application. Electricity surged through me at just the smallest touch.

  “I can interview you now,” I offered, almost desperately.

  She laughed, and it was a lovely sound.

  We talked for well over an hour that day. I asked her about her life, and why she was looking for a barista job, and she told me she was really looking for anything. Anything to help her get through school.

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  It was easy talking to Natalia, or Nat, as I'd later call her. As easy as breathing.

  She was a great worker, and an even better barista. She learned fast, and didn't complain when it got busy. Her fairy-like presence danced around the shop like it was a second home. The customers loved her, and it's safe to say that I did, too.

  We became fast friends, and a year later, she finally told me what actually brought her into my shop that day.

  Mark was a piece of shit.

  He was a rich, blonde, snotty, lacrosse playing, nepo-baby piece of shit, who drove a red BMW that his father definitely bought, and generally treated women like garbage. He was pre-med in a fairly prestigious field, but bought his test scores, and was dumb as a box of rocks otherwise. Whether he passed his exams or not, he had a seat in the board room with Daddy Dearest if the whole “doctor thing” didn't pan out.

  Nat met him in school, while she was working for her degree. He took one look at her and decided to ruin her life.

  They dated for over a year. Trips to Cancun. The French Riviera. Turks and Caicos. Private dinners at the most expensive restaurants. An expensive apartment. Designer shopping sprees. The works.

  And it won her over.

  She loved him. Even when he cheated on her the first time, and the second time, she still loved him.

  He would shower her with expensive gifts and jewelry, and inevitably, it would smooth things over.

  After the third time she caught him, he offered to pay off her student loans in advance, so she could finish school. He also hinted at the possibility that they could get married when she graduated.

  But that didn't happen.

  One night, after a long day, Nat came home to find a woman standing in their apartment in lingerie, holding a loaded gun. The woman demanded to know where Mark was, that he'd said to meet her there, and told her where the spare key was. Nat was stunned.

  As the woman broke down in tears, Nat fled the apartment and called the police.

  When Mark finally returned home, all hell had broken loose. Police everywhere, and a shattered Natalia, wrapped in a blanket, sobbing in the back of an ambulance.

  He rushed to her, and she accused him of cheating for the final time.

  When he explained that, yes, he'd been carrying on with this woman for a few months, Nat made up her mind. She told him that she was leaving him.

  After the police left, with the trespasser in custody, Mark and Nat returned to their apartment. They talked, and their talk turned to screams.

  He threatened to kill her, and himself, if she tried to leave, but she stood her ground and began packing. He grabbed her by her hair and slammed her to the ground, kicking her in the stomach and screaming, before backing out of the room and disappearing.

  Nat stayed, curled up on the floor, until the sun came up. Terrified that he would return.

  He didn't come back.

  Too embarrassed to call the police twice within 24 hours, she packed the rest of her things and loaded up her car, then drove to her mother's house.

  Mark’s red BMW was parked on the street outside, waiting for her.

  As she ran to her mother's door, he got out of the car and sprinted toward her, holding a small box in his hand. He got down on one knee, with tears in his eyes, and the dumb bastard proposed to her.

  She kicked him in the teeth as hard as she could. Her mother chased him off with a loaded shotgun.

  She never saw Mark again after that.

  She came into my shop the next day, trying to get a job that would help her pay off her loans. She told me she felt blessed, like someone was looking out for her when I immediately gave her the interview. I didn't have the heart to tell her that “someone” was me.

  I had tears in my eyes as she finished the story.

  I held her hand as she cried. And it was in that moment that I decided, not only did I love her, but that I would do anything in my power to make sure she never hurt like this again.

  I guess that's why I'm like this. Too many women in my life carry this pain, or have heard similar stories from women they know.

  Their trauma, their stories, push me forward in my pursuit of justice.

  I trained my already strong body to become a machine. Studied the motives and dead giveaways of abusers. Honed my technique with self defense classes. Bought several guns, and learned to shoot them. I even threw some light criminal justice study in for good measure.

  It wasn't difficult to become what I am. I just had to be the exact opposite of everything they are.

  Am I in love with Natalia Reed? Yes. Does her story impact my sense of morality? Abso-fuckin-lutely.

  Is she getting closer to finding out the truth than I'd probably like her to?

  Also, yes.

  But that's on me.

  I haven't gone after Mark yet. That would be too obvious. But he is on my radar. I know how to find him. My stock investment portfolio is safely accumulating commas under his watchful eye.

  I laughed when I found out he'd failed his attempt at medical school. Dumb piece of shit.

  When the time is right, and I know I can trust Nat with the truth, I'll make my move.

  For now, distance is best.

  I'm digging my own grave, aren't I? Oh, well.

  She might be the nail in my coffin, but I'm okay with that. I made my peace with it a long time ago.

  Anything for her.