Protection

Chapter 8

TOBIAS POV

Tris leans into me tiredly as I lead her out to the car. I am weary myself, and all I did was stand off to the side while she had fun the whole night, essentially. I have never been much of a party person, let alone a social person, so I am now in a bad mood and want nothing more than to go home and crash.

Except, that mansion is not my home, as much as I have warmed up to it.

With droopy eyes, I pull open the passenger door to help Tris inside the car, but I am shocked wide awake when I hear her muffled scream behind me. Whirling around, I find that there are three masked figures—two of them holding Tris while simultaneously digging through her clothes for money, and one of them heading towards me to hold me off.

I am fueled with anger and adrenaline as I approach him just as quickly, dodging his first punch but not the knife in his hand. He nicks me across the forehead, right above my eyebrow, and I grit my teeth before blocking his next hit and kneeing him in the gut. Through his mask, I hear him moan in pain, and I disarm him at the same time I kick him back into a random car on the street, which luckily doesn't sound an alarm.

Dropping the knife, I turn my attention to the other two. One of them has let go of Tris, while the other struggles to get her to hold still. This guy is not as smart, and all it takes is two hard hits to the face for him to fall to the ground whining.

"Four!" Tris suddenly shrieks in terror. Her urgency sends me into a panic. My eyes land on the man who is grabbing her by the hair, on the shiny knife that inches its way to her waist. I don't get to her in time, but I am pretty certain that I see her turn out of the stab—or mostly, at least, since I hear her cry out.

I take most of my anger out on the last masked person. He did not just help attack us, no, he tried kill Tris.

When had I become so protective of her?

I lose track of how many punches I throw, how many kicks I land in his torso. The man yells out as he curls up on the sidewalk, but nobody comes to help him—I doubt anyone would, even if they could hear him over the loud music coming from inside. I am relentless, and I don't stop even when I think he is going to pass out.

I am enraged. I am out of control.

I am my father.

It is her that pulls me out of my trancelike state, that returns my vision from the red that was all I saw for a moment. "Four," Tris squeaks out.

My gaze lands on her when I stop, panting from my sudden outburst. Her white shirt is soaked with blood on her left side, seeping into her jean jacket. She clutches the wound, whimpering lightly. I have never seen her this vulnerable, and it surprises me so much that I am rooted to my place until she calls my name again.

Stepping over to her, I crouch down in front of her and say, "Let me see it." She shakes her head stubbornly. "Tris. Show it to me."

I doubt that the stab wound is fatal—if it was, she would look and act a lot worse—and I am correct in my assumption. The laceration does not seem too bad, but it is a decent cut, some two inches long and probably a centimeter deep. It is still hard to assess the damage because I only have a streetlight to see at the moment. But blood pours from it fast, staining her skin, and I know that I need to get her out of here.

"You're going to need stitches," I inform her, helping her remove her jacket. "I'll take you to the hospital."

"No," she whines.

I sigh, moving her hands to rest on the jacket pressed to the wound. Seriously? Now is not the time to throw a fit. "Tris, you need to go to the hospital."